


The Study of Lightning

by Linesk



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Action, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Ignis is the smartest dumbass who ever lived, M/M, Pining, Post-Episode Ignis Verse 2, Prompto is a walking anxiety attack, Slow Burn, Subterfuge, iggy and gladio are bros, playing it fast and loose with the lore here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22139848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linesk/pseuds/Linesk
Summary: When Noctis had first called upon Ramuh's aid, the sky had darkened with thunderous clouds, and the celestial sorcerer descended upon their enemies like a merciless maelstrom. Ignis' skin prickled with the electric current of divine energy, and he could only gape up in paralyzed awe at the entity that loomed above him, with Lucii's prince held securely in the god's palm. Celestial lightning branched between the sabertusks they'd struggled to fell, destroying the beasts with one devastating blast, and all at once the battle was over. When the god finally knelt to deposit his charge back on solid ground, Ignis felt very small, like a moth hovering before an enormous flame. Noctis was the sun, radiant despite his unsurety, the very center of Ignis' devotion.Over the years, Ignis has offered up his own life for the sake of the king. After the wake of a decade of darkness, when their world is rebuilding, that simple fact has not changed. He will stand at Noctis' side and shield him from the world's cruelties. Always.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 50
Kudos: 152





	1. Chorus of the Bells

Most direct servants to the crown wake with the crescendo of bells from the nearby Tempestas cathedral. Every morning, just as the blessed sun scatters its first peals of light to break the darkness, there is a clamor from the tallest tower. It’s a beautiful piece of architecture; black spires rake across the sky like elegant branches, ever reaching for the giving warmth of sunrise. The overlarge, sturdy obsidian bricks catch the light, throwing back suggestions of silhouettes, muted fragmentations of torchlight. The balustrades are crowded with silent sentries, all cut from marble, avatars of Ramuh. Long, sweeping wings extend from their rippled backs, their robes chiseled so expertly that one can forget they’re born of stone, though the feaux fabric certainly looks like it should sway in the ocean-brought winds. Deep-cut eyes peer perpetually down their aquiline noses, passing silent judgement on the prayer-goers and priests.

Ignis has never awoken with the bells, however. He’s always up well before, when the stars are still bright and harsh against the inkblot sky. He dresses in silence, styles his hair into an artful coif by a single light, his mind always abuzz with the day’s schedule. He has to stay sharp, always one step ahead of everyone else, because his king deserves nothing less.

No, he doesn’t wake with the bells, but sometimes, on mornings when he’s feeling especially pensive, he will stand on his balcony and look down on the Fulgarian monks as they carry out their twilight ritual. Ignis had awoken with an ache behind his left eye, the steady reminder that he had yet to fulfill his end of a celestial bargain. He leans against the iron bannister, absently tracing the scarred flesh with his fingertips as he watches the robed men with their long, ashen beards march out from the cathedral’s gaping maw.

The air is cool this early before dawn and settles his blood with a welcome chill. He has never minded the cold. Icewind always brings equal parts discomfort and focus; a harsh clarity that Ignis carries like armor. His own comfort has always been overshadowed by Noctis’ safety, and he would wish it no other way.

The monks’ chants echo up from the cobblestone path, their sleep-rough voices settling into a hypnotic cadence that nearly lulls Ignis into a trance-like state. Memories filter through his sharp mind like a siphon, and his muscles tense automatically.

_“Is the storm ready to rage?”_

_“Just say when.”_

Their incense burners swing like lilting scales as they amble forward. There’s an altar at the eye of the central garden, a jagged, crystalline sculpture jutting up from a curved knee-high prayer bench. It looks like a peal of dark lightning, forever suspended in time. The chants grow louder as the monks draw near to their destination, and the tempo of their sleep-rough voices increases. Ignis can still feel divine electricity skitter across his flesh, a prickling ghost of sensation he will wear like a second skin until the day he is called away.

_(The gods do not forget those who are in their debt.)_

There’s a knock at his door, echoing throughout his chamber like a challenge. Subconsciously, Ignis pulls the hidden dagger from beneath his vest. The perfectly balanced weight soothes his nerves as the warm leather handle settles comfortably against his palm. Always one step ahead, armed with a sharp blade and an even sharper wit.

His voice is steady when he turns to say, “Come in.”

Gladiolus pushes open the heavy door, has to swing it a bit wider than most to accommodate his broad shoulders. Ignis doesn’t give anything away, but his friend catches the subtle motion as he tucks the dagger back into its sheath. The Shield chuckles, drawing a hand to stroke at his raven-dark beard.

“Somethin’ have you on edge, Specs?”

 _I’m always ‘on edge,’_ he wants to quip. _One of us has to be._

“Can’t be too careful,” is his smooth, deceptively light reply. He closes some of the distance between them with long, measured steps. The chanting below has ceased; at this point the monks will be on their knees, spread out around the altar in a semi-circle, silent in reverent prayer.

Ignis gives his friend an appraising sweep, quirks an eyebrow, and makes a loose gesture with one finely manicured hand.

“I’ve never known you to be up this early.”

It’s not exactly a question but is pitched like one. Regardless, Gladio has the grace to understand what is expected of him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he rumbles. Ignis knows there’s more to be said, and so he turns to his kitchenette with a succinct nod.

“Have a cup of ebony, then.”

“Sounds good.”

Gladio makes himself at home, collapsing onto the maroon settee in the corner. It looks stiff and purely decorative, but Ignis knows it to be incredibly plush - the perfect blend of fashion and comfort, balanced as evenly as his weapon of choice.

He fixes the man’s coffee with three sugars and plenty of cream, knowing it to be his preference. Ignis smiles fondly as he works, appreciative of the dichotomy between Gladio’s intimidating stature and his deep-set love for sweet things. He takes his own cup black, as he enjoys the clarity afforded by such a bitter tang.

When he turns, a warm mug in each hand, the sky has brightened somewhat, limning Gladio’s sharpcut features in soft blue light. His posture is loose and open, but Ignis can see the unmistakable glint of fear in his dark eyes.

“Here you are,” he intones politely as he offers up the ebony. Gladio accepts his mug with a tight smile and immediately slurps down a few gulps. Ignis sits across from him, perched on the edge of his bedroom bench. He takes a tentative sip of his own drink, still burning hot, and waits.

“I’ve never been very spiritual,” Gladio begins, and it’s another trait Ignis admires of him, that he doesn’t feel the need to preface anything with idle chatter. He jumps right to the point.

“But I had a dream,” here he pauses so scrub a hand over his face. “Well, not a dream. I don’t know. More like a vision, I guess.”

Ignis nods, considering, and takes another prim sip.

“You never said what happened at the crystal. And I didn’t want to pry. Figured it wasn’t my business. But what I saw-“

Dread, blazing-hot and immutable, snakes up Ignis’ spine. He knows where this is going.

 _Why?_ He wants to ask. _Why would the Six give this away?_

Gladio looks more tired than Ignis has ever seen him. He’s not yet in his uniform, is dressed only in a dark pair of pajama pants, unarmed and unshielded. His hair is mussed, sticking out at odd angles, as though he’s spent the past few hours raking his hands through the black strands. He meets Ignis’ gaze now, and the scant light casts a deep shadow beneath his eyes. Ignis has the sudden compulsion to weave some pretty lie, to absolve his friend of this burden.

“You said this world means nothing to you-“

_“Don’t.”_

“-that you’d pay the price. Even if it meant giving up your own life.”

Here he pauses again to massage blunt, square fingers into his temple. Ignis, ever the cunning linguist, finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

“Just- for _fuck’s_ sake Iggy, is it true?”

He could deflect, could claim ‘ _it was only a dream, no sense in worrying._ ’ He could push Gladio out the door with a reassuring pat on the back, could move through the day without consequence, his secret still safely hidden behind the cage of his teeth.

Gladio had always been clever though, would see straight through the lie. Ignis marshals himself.

“Yes.”

The Shield drops his head and nods, letting loose a mirthless, disbelieving laugh. There’s an overwrought silence that follows, and Ignis defers to battle tactics: _let your opponent make the first move, then react accordingly._

“Did you tell him?” he finally manages, his voice even rougher than usual.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ignis softly admits. “He doesn’t know about the bargain, or any particulars, really. The king’s mantle is heavy enough.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Gladio snaps.

_Oh._

This time it’s Ignis who huffs out a dry, airy chuckle.

“Of _course_ not. What good would come of it? He’ll take a wife soon, I’m sure-“

“Ignis-“

“-and I’ll be here to serve and protect his growing family, until the last.”

Gladio bends to rest his elbows on his knees. He stares at the sleek slate tile between his bare feet and shakes his head.

“It’s not fair.”

“-for me?” Ignis ventures, a litany of excuses ready on his tongue.

“For either of you. He deserves to know.”

Ignis’ chest is impossibly tight. He wants to eschew his responsibilities and flee to the sparring range, to let loose a torrent of daggers at some unfortunate target. There’s retribution in the sound of metal slicing the air, in the satisfying _crrrick_ of wood splintering beneath his precise assault.

Instead, he exhales slowly, tries to find his center through the maelstrom of ennui that always courses his veins. He’s never unguarded, never vulnerable, not even around his dearest friends. To expose oneself is to expose one’s weakness, and as the king’s right hand, he has never afforded himself such a dangerous luxury. His love is a deeply hidden thing, hoarded away in the dark recesses of his heart, never to be brought to the surface.

There is no threat here, though. The larks have begun to twitter about right outside his window, drawing energy from the rising sun. His chambers are empty, save for an old friend, one who came to him purely out of concern. Gladio carries no ill will.

“Please,” he says earnestly. The smooth timbre of his voice has dropped, no longer dripping with the guarded tone meant for subterfuge. “If you don’t understand, at least give me your word that you won’t tell him.”

_(Noctis can’t know, he can never know. Suffering alone is a far better fate than offering up my heart, only to have it declined with a polite smile.)_

Gladio seems stricken by the change in demeanor. His eyes widen a fraction as he lets Ignis’ sorrow-laced words wash over him. He takes in the uncharacteristic droop of fine, sharp shoulders, the narrowed, pleading gaze, broken by a lightning-strike scar.

In the end, the sincerity must sway him.

“Nah, s’not my place,” he relents. Ignis heaves a sigh of relief.

“But listen, you don’t have to deal with this alone. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’ll be around.”

Ignis’ lips quirk into a slanted grin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Then, eyes glistening with mischief, he adds, “but when have you ever known me to cry?”

All at once the tension between them dissipates like steam. Gladio rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, always a tough guy. It’s a figure of speech, smartass.”

Just as he never fills a silence with inane conversation, Gladio also never overstays his welcome. With an exaggerated yawn and a languorous stretch, he stands to leave.

“Alright, I’m outta here, duty calls.”

Ignis smiles up at him, admittedly feeling lighter having shared his most precious secret. He stills his friend with a hand on his forearm.

“I meant it,” he says on an oath. “Thank you.”

Gladio clasps his shoulder with a friendly shake, then nods and leaves. A metallic clang bounces off the high ceilings as the door shuts behind the gentle giant, the dull echo serving to highlight the yawning pit of loneliness that shrouds him like a heavy cloak. The sun has finally begun to crawl upward, and Ignis startles as the quiet morning air is disrupted by the shrill, boisterous song of Tempestas’ chorus of bells.

He returns to the balcony, just for a moment, to peer down at the Fulgarian monks as they pick their way back to the cathedral in a solemn line. His heart goes out to them; they are sworn to never take a spouse, to spend their lives sequestered in antiquity, studying and extending worship to Ramuh, never indulging in anything worldly. They live in service to a higher power, and the inherent parallel to his own reality makes Ignis’ chest ache with sympathy.

Ignis closes his eyes for a brief moment, inhales deeply, then rolls his shoulders and straightens his cuffs.

“Well,” he says to no one, “’Duty calls,’ indeed.”

His king is waiting.


	2. The Limit of Longing

Dark molding curves around stories-high, elegantly narrow windows separated by cunningly crafted columns of grey marble. There is always an echo here as his boots tap against the stone tile, the echo of history, of loss, and yes, of possibility.

The guards nod their respect as he stalks toward the throne room, reverent faces bobbing toward him as the somber air fills with the clinks of boots clicking together - the tinny chorus of sentries standing at attention as he advances. Ignis doesn’t relish in the recognition, has never been one to laud power over others, but it does warm him to know that his comrades hold him in such high esteem.

The throne room itself never fails to steal Ignis’ breath right out of his lungs. A split obsidian staircase twines upward toward the dark stone landing, lined with elaborate swirling iron rails, and the throne itself is flanked by artfully chiseled, golden statues of the Six, twisting themselves around the king like silent, dire guardians. The intense sunbeams only add drama to the static scene, and Ignis represses the urge to shield his eyes as the jutting curve of Shiva’s perfectly sculpted shoulder glints in the early morning light.

It isn’t the architecture that arrests him, however; not the ostentatious throne with its blood-red, silk cushions, nor the elaborate, towering walls adorned with glistening etchings and ocean glass. No, it’s the king himself, only ever Noctis. He’s draped in finery, dripping with layers of dark wool embellished with shimmering, swirling filigrees of exotic thread at the hems. He cuts a commanding figure with his knifesharp jaw and dark beard as he sprawls lazily across the ostentatious chair, but there is a lingering glint of boyish curiosity in his Cygillan-deep eyes, a piercing, inquisitive gaze that always threatens to pin Ignis in place.

_Yes, pin me like a biologist, secure my palms and soles to a corkboard. Arrange me as you will, framed above your headboard, make me the centerpiece of your collection. You, only ever you._

For all of Ignis’ acute battle prowess and skill with a blade, for all of his court-trained subterfuge and litany of persuasive words, he will always be helpless at the foot of _this_ throne, with Noctis leering down at him. It’s a harrowing thing indeed, to possess so much strength and yet continue barreling forthright toward his only weakness.

He draws his left hand to his heart with a flourish and bows at the hip.

“Your Majesty.” 

It’s a common enough greeting at this point, but always a privilege to speak the title. This future wasn’t what the gods had intended, and Ignis carries more than a small amount of pride at knowing _he_ was the one to put a wrench in the grand, cosmic order. Anything for his king.

When he straightens, Noct’s severe countenance has softened. There’s a subtle quirk to his lips, unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him well.

“C’mon, cut it out,” he says fondly, as he always does when the advisor refers to him in such a formal manner. Ignis allows his shoulders to fall a bit, lets some of the stiff tension ease from his spine, as he climbs the remaining stairs to stand at the king’s side.

“You’ve gotta be at _least_ twenty minutes early,” Noct quips, eschewing the regal cadence of voice allotted for esteemed council members to speak more plainly to his advisor. The burden of his trust makes Ignis’ blood go hot.

“I’m impressed that you’re even awake at this hour,” Ignis shoots back pleasantly. It’s an easy dance, one they’ve maintained since childhood.

Noctis huffs out a laugh. A few errant tufts of his unruly hair fall across his eyes as he chuckles.

“I’ll have to report you to the council,” he says seriously, “disrespecting the crown like this.”

“I shall tender my resignation right away,” Ignis intones, wrestling the tinge of mirth in his voice. “Clearly, I have stepped out of line.”

The king is the first to relent. He shrugs off the banter like an old coat and settles into a more sober mood.

“Tch, yeah,” he murmurs, “as if I could even tie my own shoes without you.”

Ignis wisely chooses not to comment on the fact that Noct rarely wears shoes with actual laces anymore, opting these days for formal handstitched leather boots adorned with elegant silver clasps. He instead basks in the compliment, straightening a little to shoot an adoring, crooked smile down at his king. Noctis easily returns the smile, and Ignis’ chest seizes, even now, even so many years later.

(There are equal parts pain as pleasure, he thinks, flying so close to the sun.) 

“So?” Noct prompts as he casually crosses an ankle against the opposite knee, “Morning report?”

Ignis lets his affectionate smile flatten into a somber line and clasps his hands professionally at the small of his back, settling once more into the image of a perfectly poised advisor. He doesn’t miss the way Noctis rolls his eyes at the stiff change in posture.

“You’ll be pleased to know that your nine o’ clock meeting has been rescheduled, as the Grand Maester is under the weather.”

Noctis’ grin returns with a vengeance, entirely too happy to have just learned of someone falling ill.

“-That is to say, your morning is relatively free. I do wish to go over more blueprints after lunch; we must be timely in refurbishing the city’s water supply network.”

 _That_ strikes a chord. Ignis nearly gives himself eyestrain as he peers at the king from his peripheral vision, mesmerized as lithe fingers trace idly at his dark beardstart. Ignis’ own fingertips twitch longingly against his palms, and he has to wonder on the scope of his restraint, to view Noct in these quiet, pensive moments, and not reach out to _touch_.

“I heard the southern district has gone back to using wells,” Noctis muses, staring far and away, so preoccupied in thought that he looks, for all the world, like he is glimpsing a different plane entirely.

“Yes,” Ignis affirms. “I’m afraid their pipe water is no longer drinkable. The mercury levels are concerning.”

“Well, that needs to take priority. I know I probably don’t even have to ask but, did you have a new system in mind?”

“Naturally,” the advisor drawls. “The paperwork is all ready, needing only your approval and signature.”

 _“’Naturally,’”_ Noctis mocks, affecting a poor imitation of Ignis’ rich accent. There’s a playful tilt to his skull as he leans lazily into one hand. He is still sprawled on the throne, draping himself across it like a flowing piece of cloth, never sitting up properly. Ever the rebel, even after he was crowned.

The sun’s rays are nearly blinding by now, in the heat of midmorning. They strike through the extended windows like heaven-sent blades and limn Noct’s hair in a halo of light. It’s the sweetest temptation; he looks like a veritable, brooding god, and why not? He was an avatar for their power, called upon their aid, commanded them. The king of lightning, of sunrise. Ignis wants to fall to his knees in worship, whisper supplications into the veins on Noctis’ wrists.

But Ignis is nothing if not a curator of self-discipline. He disguises a sigh behind a prim sniff and looks away, turns his gaze from the king of storms and settles it far across the resplendent space, fixating, instead, on the sanguine carpet runner.

Dread always has a home in him, and it flares to life now, as he prepares to bring one last point to bear. His history is pockmarked with a decade of darkness, with battle scars and loss and an unfulfilled prophecy that nevertheless haunts him every moment of his waking life. He can temper the sting of it, usually, keeping his hands busy, always pouring over paperwork or sparring or cooking. Now, however, in the comfortable silence that follows, the dread is all-encompassing, creating a hollow of ice right in the pit of his stomach.

It’s a subject he never wants to breach, yet one that demands attention, for the sake of the kingdom, and, ultimately, for the sake of his king.

“There _was_ one other matter I wished to discuss,” he parses, his words over-light and measured.

Noctis picks up on the deceptive timbre right away and snaps around to shoot a suspicious glare.

“I have been approached by multiple council members about the matter of your legacy. I could arrange for a matchmaker-“

“No,” is the immediate reply. Noct’s casual, youthful tone has slipped into one of regal determination. There’s an edge of malice to his voice – _back off, or else._

Despite the singular object of his affections floating perpetually out of his reach, Ignis has never considered himself a masochist. He is fearless to protect his king in battle, certainly, but otherwise prefers to fight with cold logic in order to mitigate his own harm. He dresses in the smoothest fabrics, decorates his chambers with the plushest furniture. He is not averse to the concept of his own comfort.

-And yet, through some misgiven curiosity, he blurts, “Why ever not?”

Anguish shutters across Noctis’ countenance at the question, and Ignis immediately wishes he had not asked, had only blindly obeyed.

“Just drop it, Specs,” he murmurs, sounding exhausted.

 _Of course,_ Ignis thinks. _Luna’s loss is still too fresh in his mind._

He feels positively wretched when he says, “My apologies. I will take my leave.”

Spiderfingers of regret pluck at the synapses in his spine, playing him like a miserable harp as he descends the staircase. His singular priority had once been to glimpse Noctis on that throne, vivid and thriving and _alive_ , to stand before him garbed in a King’s Glaive uniform and address him as _Your Majesty_.

Presently, that priority shifts into one that is simpler on the surface yet burdened with the lingering pang of loss: to see his king truly happy.

+++

The sparring range is a welcome reprieve from the maelstrom of vile thoughts in Ignis’ torn mind. He plucks the dagger from his vest, curved like a talon and balanced as the horizon, and hurls it at his target, sneering as the blade strikes its mark. Then come the smaller blades, the ones secreted away in his boots and the hem of his slacks, a flurry of glinting iron slicing the air to embed into the wooden silhouette of a man with a crudely painted target at its center.

Once he runs out of ammunition, he busies himself with dislodging the daggers from splintered wood when he hears unmistakably heavy footsteps approach from behind.

“Not bad,” Gladio rumbles. Ignis turns to face the other man; he’s standing with his thick arms crossed, a cocky smirk set upon his lips, his stature radiating challenge. The advisor rolls a shoulder and dips his head in recognition.

“I do try to keep sharp,” he quips as he rearranges his catalogue of blades into their proper sheaths.

Gladiolus hums and takes to languidly pacing around him in a semi-circle, not unlike a predator sizing up its prey.

“Up for a _real_ fight?” he chides, full of smug bravado. Ignis’ mouth quirks eagerly; he’s hungry for a living, moving target on which to unleash the tamped fury and exasperation coursing his veins. Were he in a more neutral headspace, he may have declined, but in the moment he wants nothing more than an outlet for his frustration. He slides into a battle stance, rocking back on his heels, and nods.

There’s only a beat of acknowledgment, the subtle grit of Gladio’s boots in the soil, before his footing widens in preparation to strike.

A pause then – Ignis registers the light breeze, the dancing mulberry leaves, the twining sheets of ivy creeping up the nearby garden wall. He inhales the crisp air, finds his center.

When he cants his head in invitation, Gladio sweeps forward and draws the broadsword from his back in one fluid motion. Ignis silently commends his unwitting grace; at a glance, many fallen foes had made the mistake of assuming he’d be slow and clumsy, but nothing could be farther from the truth.

The sword is thrust right at his chest, and Ignis deftly skips backward in avoidance toward the ivy-drenched wall. Gladiolus follows without hesitation, backing him against the marred bricks. There’s another arching swipe, one that would have sliced right through his chest, that Ignis dodges with ease, side-stepping the attack to twirl around behind the king’s Shield. He raises two crescent-curved daggers just as Gladio pivots to meet him, and the resulting _clang_ as folded carbon meets with Damascus steel sends a jolt of adrenaline through Ignis’ entire form, ricocheting all the way to his fingertips, infusing him with a primal sort of control. He can sense what happens next, can feel the inevitability of their trajectory down to the gods-cursed core of him.

Ignis is not too prideful to admit that he’d never win against Gladio’s raw strength, a point which is proven as his arms tremble to maintain the push of metal. And so, with fox-like grace, he relents, drawing his arms in to his sides, and ducks to step behind his opponent, smirking as Gladio staggers forward, precariously off-balance without another force to push against. A swift blow to the back of his neck and a kick to his lumbar sends the king’s Shield toppling forward, catching his weight on his own sword as it meets the ground. Ignis then wrenches Gladio’s head back by a fistful of raven hair and draws a blade to his exposed neck.

“ _FINE_ , I give,” the man growls. Ignis releases him immediately and offers to help him up, instead.

There had been a time when Gladio, frustrated with the prince and the world and his own shortcomings, would have swatted his hand away with a snarl. Now, however, drenched in sunlight, with the promise of life flourishing around them, he takes Ignis’ forearm with a grateful smile and draws to his feet.

“The bigger they are…” Ignis drawls, earning him a near-painful slap on the back that sends him stumbling.

“Always gotta have the last word,” Gladio grouses fondly.

The advisor tilts his head toward the sky as he wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand.

“You alright?” Gladio questions, as he has a hundred times before. A hundred times before, Ignis had deflected with some dismissive quip: “ _Of course_ ” or “ _As well as I can be, I suppose_.”

There’s a self-same affirmation on his tongue, but before he can speak, he thinks back to their conversation that morning, to the careful, gentle way Gladio had received his tentative trust. He sweeps the other man with an appraising eye, takes in the sincere pitch of his eyebrows and the wide, unguarded sheen of his eyes. Gladio has always born his thoughts openly, and here he is, standing in a world reborn, quietly asking Ignis to do the same.

His mouth is already open to speak, but he shuts it abruptly and sighs, allowing his proud shoulders to shrink toward the earth.

“I’ve been better,” Ignis admits.

Gladio, to his credit, doesn’t start fawning or asking a barrage of questions. Instead, he simply offers, “Wanna talk about it?”

Ignis finds it terrifying, to peel away the innumerable layers of his psyche to lay himself bare. Still, he tempers his trepidation, assuaged by Gladio’s bid for trust.

“I may or may not have upset our king,” he intones, his gaze drawn to the side.

“Easy enough to do,” Gladio says coolly.

“I suggested hiring a matchmaker,” Ignis continues. “I was a fool. He is clearly still mourning Luna. I’m afraid I only managed to pour salt in the wound.”

Gladio thrusts his broadsword into the soft earth to lean casually against it. His square fingers tap idly against the hilt as he considers the advisor’s confession.

“You’re only doing your job,” he says at length. “He’s the king now, he has to have a thicker skin about these kinds of things.”

There’s another pause as the Shield redistributes his weight. His dark brows cinch closer to his eyes as though pained before he dredges up his next point.

“I wish you’d stop shooting yourself in the foot, though. You could leave that subject up to someone else.”

“ _’Someone else_ ,’” Ignis scoffs. He immediately regrets the petulant tone, but Gladio doesn’t seem to take offense. “I am his advisor, as you said; it is part of my job.”

The king’s Shield shakes his head but doesn’t protest. He plucks up his sword and slides it easily into the sheath strapped to his broad back before rolling his shoulders. The motion seems almost dismissive.

“Well, you worry too much. He’s a moody brat-“

_“Gladio!”_

“-and he’ll get over it.”

It’s becoming almost unbearable, to stand around in the unshaded heat, dressed in layers of dark wool. Ignis can feel the sweat pool in the valley of his spine and shifts uncomfortably from the sticky sensation. He’s about to take his leave when Gladio suddenly blurts: “Hey, let’s all get a drink tonight. It’ll be like old times. I’ll even get Prompto to join us, the lovesick moron.”

Ignis quirks a fine brow in question.

“We hardly have time to-“

“Don’t start with that, everyone’s gotta kick back sometimes, and _you’re_ no exception.” He jabs a blunt finger at Ignis’ chest to further his point. “I’ll have a driver ready at nine.”

His tone brooks no argument, and Ignis _does_ feel weary, right down to his marrow. A break from blueprints and politics, however brief, would be a welcome reprieve. And so, with a theatrical, put-upon groan, he relents.

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

+++

The Crown’s Rest is squirreled away on a low-trafficked alley only a few miles or so from the castle itself and is aptly named; it was once Regis’ old watering hole. There’s something charming in its simple décor, in the tacky neon lights advertising local beer, to the exposed brick peeking through well-worn walls painted green. The music is light, turned down low so that conversation is easy. Dim, yellow lights cast a sleepy haze throughout the small space, and there are only a few other patrons, mild-mannered folk who have the decency to only nod in greeting when Noctis and the others enter, rather than jumping to their feet to shower him with praise. The barkeep is a genial middle-aged woman who Ignis has come to know as Marita. Her brown eyes twinkle in welcome as they file in and take a seat.

“What’ll it be, gents?”

A rag is slung over one inked-up arm, the fruit of her labors clear in the woodshine of the bartop. There’s pride etched in the crows-feet of her face; the baseboards here are always clean and the tap is always fresh.

“Crown City IPA,” Gladio rumbles.

Noctis opts for whiskey: “Wild Dog, neat.”

“Just the house merlot, please,” Ignis says politely.

When Marita turns to Prompto, he is already fidgeting, his hips arguing with the leather barstool as he surveys the rows and rows of liquor, bright eyes flicking back and forth with indecision.

“Oooh, I don’t know you guys, should I start with a beer? Talia loves craft beer, maybe something like that? I’m not really sure what-“

“He’ll have a Crown City IPA too,” Gladio cuts in, ending Prompto’s rambling. The blond only giggles at the interruption and leans over to deliver a playful push to one broad shoulder.

As the barkeep turns to fix their drinks, Ignis cannot repress the fond smile that quirks his lips as studies his closest friends with a sidelong glance. After all this time, after everything they’d endured, there was still that warm undercurrent of familiarity. Were they immortal beings, he imagined they could go a full century without speaking and _still_ fall right back into this comfortable comradery.

“So, how _is_ everything going with miss Talia?” he questions, and he has to stifle a laugh when Gladio groans and shoots a pointed scowl his way.

Prompto, on the other hand, brightens immediately at the mention of his beloved girlfriend.

“It’s great! She’s so smart and funny, and she just… _gets_ me, ya know? We went hiking the other day, here, I have pictures-“

As he fumbles with the camera that hangs perpetually about his skinny neck, Ignis shoots a glance to his king. Noctis’ arms are crossed on the well-worn oak, and his thoughts are clearly elsewhere; the advisor _knows_ that far-away look, the broody set of his mouth, the glazed-over sheen of his pupils. Ignis would gladly give his life to lift the bags from under his king’s eyes, to chase away the strain in his smile. Ghosts linger here, even in the aftermath, even after sunrise.

His reverie is broken as Prompto jogs over and thrusts the camera screen beneath his nose. His toothy grin speaks of pride and unabashed happiness, and Ignis envies him, how he loves so openly.

As he flips through the pictures, he can read the underlying story as easily as his favorite novel. Lovers on a hiking trail, leaving the beaten path to explore the forbidden forest. Prompto’s freckled face is flushed from the sun and exertion, and Talia’s verdant gaze is focused on him in every shot, never facing the camera, always fixated on the lithe man as though he’s the only thing worth looking at in the entire world. The final picture is of them on a cliff’s edge at sunset, their silhouettes cutting a stark contrast against the blossoming sky.

As he studies this last picture, distantly impressed by the artful composition, he registers that Noctis has leaned over to look as well, close enough that he can feel each puff of breath ghosting against his neck. Ignis’ heart stutters to a halt, and he’s thankful for the low lighting, as he can sense goosebumps rise across his skin.

“She’s lovely,” he manages as he hands the camera back over, grateful that his smooth voice doesn’t betray his scattered nerves.

“Yeah, I’m happy for you, bud,” Noct agrees, and Ignis doesn’t miss the way he lingers, their shoulders brushing, before finally pulling away to sit properly.

“I’d like her more if you’d shut up about her,” Gladio quips, but there’s a smirk on his face. Prompto takes the bait anyway and rounds on him, but their arguing is cut short as Marita slides their drinks down the bar.

Ignis likes his wine as he likes his Ebony, bitter and strong. He swirls the blood-red liquid in his glass, letting it breathe, letting _himself_ breathe. Alcohol is dangerous; it loosens the tongue, strips away inhibitions. His success as an advisor, as a _soldier_ , had been built, brick-by-brick, on the foundation of his sharp wit, and he’s hesitant to drink, even in a safe place, even with his most trusted companions.

“We should toast to something!” Prompto suggests, his boyish tone light with excitement.

His gut stirs with nostalgia, then. Years of stargazing, of chasing gods, chasing lightning. Rent flesh and betrayal, scars that linger even still, death and yearning and sacrifice - it all coalesces into one madcap strike of longing, pure and unfiltered. Ignis raises his glass, and he overflows.

“To the King.”

A beer bottle clinks against his wine. Then another.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Hell yeah!”

Noctis shrinks beneath the praise and hides his face in a palm.

“C’mon guys, don’t-“

“It’s a _toast_ ,” Prompto protests. “You can’t _not_ participate. Besides, you’re outnumbered.”

The king sighs in defeat and lifts his own glass with a grudging sort of resignation.

There’s silence as they drink together, the four of them, Adam’s apples bobbing as though parched. Cracks are forming in the foundation of Ignis’ resolve, and he drinks deeply from his glass, relishing the dry wine as it coats his stomach with warmth. When none of them stop, it becomes an unspoken agreement that they’ll finish this first drink, together. And so, in the end, four empty glasses slam against the bartop in tandem, and Marita wastes no time in refilling them.

Prompto, the lightweight, breaks the silence by nudging Gladio with a pointy elbow and blurting, “So what about you, big guy? Any special lady in your life?”

“None I keep around for more than a night or two,” he replies smoothly, taking a swig of his fresh beer. His comment has the desired effect, and Prompto, flustered and sputtering, sinks back into his seat.

“Uh,” the blond squeaks at length, directing his attention to Ignis, “what about you, Iggy? Any prospects?”

 _There has only ever been one,_ he wants to scream. _I would lay myself down, become a new kingdom, allow him to map my flesh with errant roadways, leave landmarks where he pleases. I would give myself over in totality just to feel the sting of his teeth. He would only have to ask; I would wrench my ribs apart, offer up my heart with a bowed head and a prayer on my tongue._

When he speaks, his voice is darker and more bitter than the merlot in his glass.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Right. Tiiiime for a new subject,” Prompto croaks helplessly.

+++

Time passes, slow and inexorable, and they drink and drink, falling into comfortable banter. Ignis can see the glint of mirth in Marita’s eyes as she observes them, a dangerous royal team reduced to blithering idiots.

“M’just sayin’,” Prompto slurs, already drunk as he nurses his fourth beer, “she’s marriage material. Gonna pop the question and live on-on… a _chocobo farm_!” Here he lets his noodly arms flail out in emphasis. “And lots of babies, I mean, at least, like, 5 babies.”

“Gettin’ ahead of yourself, aren’t ya?” Gladio says with a lifted brow. “You’ve only been dating a few months.”

“I just _know_ , okay! This, it’s the real deal. For sure.”

Ignis hums into his wine and isn’t sure how many glasses deep he is anymore. His limbs are tingling pleasantly, and there’s a thrumming warmth coursing his veins, turning him loose and liquid. Noctis seems to notice his languid change in disposition and shoots a sly grin in his direction.

“Feeling good, Specs?”

He huffs out a laugh and can feel the flush rise on his cheeks.

“I am, yes,” he intones before tilting his head back to take another long sip of wine. He can see Noct from his peripheral vision, the king’s gaze focused on the length of his bared neck. The open attention makes him near-delirious with longing, and yet the alcohol coursing his veins mitigates any shred of propriety he may have otherwise clung to. He allows some wine to trickle in a sloppy stream from the corner of his mouth and maintains eye contact as he chases after the stray liquid with his tongue. Noctis, to his credit, doesn’t look away, just swallows.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, then, ripping him from his trance.

“We should get outta here,” Gladio says. There’s a weight to his tone, something that tips Ignis back into balance, levels his thinking once more.

“Of course.”

“Imma just get a cab,” Prompto murmurs. “Gotta get back to – to –“

“Talia?” Ignis supplies.

“Yes! That! Talia.”

“I’ll walk,” the Shield grumbles as he rubs at the back of his thick neck.

“Huh?”

“Gotta clear my head.”

“Well then, I’ll text the driver, _Majesty_ ,” Ignis says around a smile. Wonder of wonders, Noctis smiles back.

+++

There’s a moment in the car, where Noctis is peering out the window, that Ignis, even in his wine-addled haze, manages to lock away for further review. The passing streetlights cast a muted white hue against the king’s sharp features, and his dark eyes are wide with marvel as he gazes upward.

“The stars are really bright tonight,” he comments offhandedly, and his voice is so soft, soft enough that Ignis has to crane his head to hear him.

He doesn’t turn to look at the sky, however, is instead enraptured by the small gape of Noctis’ mouth, the teeth that peek out beneath a plush upper lip, the unruly hair dipping down to brush at his thick eyelashes.

“They’re beautiful,” Ignis all but whispers, like a lovestruck fool. Noctis twists to catch his intense gaze and his brows draw together in question, but the advisor can find no words to cover up his passion. He turns away instead, pressing his back deep into the fine leather seat, and stares out his own window for the remainder of the trip, silently condemning himself for giving so much away.

+++

When they’re deposited at the castle’s steps, Noctis stumbles forward with an errant chuckle, seemingly amused at his own lack of coordination.

He’s beautiful like this, Ignis thinks, carefree and laughing in the moonlight. He knows, with bone-deep certainty, that he would protect that laugh with all ten fingernails and every one of his bared teeth.

The king ambles upward with stuttering footfalls, and Ignis draws close to offer a steadying hand at his back. He means it to be a helpful gesture, just to guide him, but there is an undeniable undercurrent of indulgence to his chivalrous action as he maintains a steady point of contact with his king. Noctis, unperturbed by the gesture, leans into Ignis’ sturdy frame as they draw up the steps together. A four-armed, four-legged thing, moving forward as one. The notion wraps icy tendril’s around Ignis’ starved heart and squeezes _hard_. His breaths come out as ragged huffs, and it’s not from the physical exertion of climbing the stairwell.

Once they reach the main landing, Noctis presses closer into Ignis’ side. Gods have mercy.

“Carry me,” he commands around a smile, his whiskey-rough voice still bearing all the power of a challenge.

“Your majesty-“

“Don’t give me that. You used to when we were kids, remember?”

Damn the merlot and damn his own proclivity to submit to Noctis’ every whim. Ignis gives an exasperated sigh before bending his knees in invitation. The king doesn’t hesitate to launch onto his advisor’s back, and then strong, finely manicured hands are latched beneath his thighs, drawing him up into a secure hold. He steps forward, the king’s welcome weight pressed against him, and he knows he should protest, should send Noctis away with a vague ‘goodnight,’ but the air is temperate here in the vacant hall and his reservations are drowned in several glasses of wine, and there is only so much a mere man can resist, anyway.

They laugh together as Ignis jogs toward Noct’s chamber, only a slight stumble to his stride. There are a scarce few guards stationed at this time of night, so close to the castle’s center, and they stare forward without comment. Ignis makes a mental note to issue a bonus on their next paycheck as a reward for their silent indifference.

Moonlight filters through the stories-high windows as they continue forward, and there’s a dreamy quality to the moment. Ignis feels as though they’ve broken through some foreign membrane and stepped into a time long past, when they were younger and blissfully free from the burden of war and loss. There is no suffocating burden of the gods’ fury in this moment, just two wayward souls picking their way down an errant hallway. Ignis can’t help but laugh as he hitches Noctis further up his back and quickens his pace, years of strain and regret melting away as easily as candlewax.

This is the future they were promised all along, he thinks.

He straightens and carefully deposits his king on his feet once they’ve reached their destination. This is the point where Ignis should retreat, should draw away and leave the night behind them. But when Noct positively beams up at him, eyes shut in glee and lips drawn in a full, open-mouthed smile, he is immobilized, still as a Fulgarian gargoyle. The king fumbles with his keys before he finally presses inward, and when he turns back with a welcoming gesture, Ignis willingly follows.

 _Like a sheep to slaughter_ , his traitorous mind supplies.

Noctis flicks on a light as he enters and stretches, folding his lithe fingers together as far above his head as he can manage. Ignis drinks in the supine bend of his spine, and his starved fingers twitch at his sides as he wishes to trace that curve with his own nails, leaving crescent-moon indentations as he goes.

It is in that moment when reality descends like a cold rush of water, and something frightfully close to panic flushes Ignis’ veins like a lightning strike.

“You should go to bed, Your Majesty,” he manages, but his voice is pitched too high, and he’s too drunk to mitigate the strain in his own tone. Noctis turns to face him, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Yeah. Maybe,” he says. “Come tuck me in?”

Ignis’ hands clutch into fists. He can feel sweat bead at his forehead as he struggles to cut through the haze of pure want. _Noct is only feeling nostalgic_ , he tells himself. _He only wants familial comfort_. And so, bolstered by the pretty lies he’d weaved, he follows the king to his bedroom, to the four-poster ebony bed inlaid with gold filigree. Noctis unashamedly unbuttons his dress shirt and lets it fall to the floor below, exposing the pale plane of his chest, the artful dip of his bellybutton. Ignis’ breath hitches in his throat at the sight.

The king kicks off his boots, crawls under his thick crimson quilt, and offers up a hand. He’s unshielded here, bare and open, the snowy spires of his perfect fingers outstretched in invitation.

“It’s late,” he says, his tone light and welcoming. His eyes are impossibly wide with expectation, his cheeks flushed pink with alcohol or something else that Ignis doesn’t dare name. “You could just stay here, if you want.”

Ignis was trained to read expressions, to read intentions. He knows, with painful certainty, that he could follow Noctis to bed in this moment, could offer himself up like a royal gauntlet, and Noctis would drink from him, would fill the empty chasms of his own soul with his advisor’s giving warmth.

His lower lip trembles from the force of it all. It would be so easy to give himself over. They could laugh it off later, could glance over the incident as one drunken encounter between friends. He is paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, the weight of his future bearing heavily on the precipice of one decision. A broken-down, tired part of him considers taking Noctis' hand and crawling beneath the thick duvet. He could trace Noct's corded muscles with his tongue, glut on his red mouth and snowcap flesh. He could have one night, one night to sate him, to carry around under his fingernails, this one moment of weakness.

 _I deserve as much, do I not?_ His frantic brain pleads. _After everything I've done, living each day in service, can I not indulge this once?_

But what then? Could he continue living off one sample? Could he bring his love to the surface for one night of passion only to bury it deep in the ground the following morning?

In the end, he knows the act would destroy him utterly.

“I can’t,” Ignis rasps, his voice wretched and miserable there in the cavernous room. He doesn't linger to gauge Noct's expression, couldn't bear to see disappointment there in the lines of his treasured face. And so, like a coward, he immediately turns to leave, striding right out the chamber with leaden steps, and he shuts the door a bit more forcibly than necessary, his mind swirling in anguish as the metallic clang echoes throughout the castle’s halls.

His wobbly legs carry him back to his own rooms where he wastes no time in slamming the door behind him and wrestling with the zipper on his slacks. He fumbles over to his bed, a hand already around his iron-hard self, and collapses into the pillows, eyes slamshut and teeth grit in need. He pulls at the searing hot brand between his legs, twisting into the sheets, desperate and frustrated and lost. For all of his elegance and decorum, his motions in this moment are jerky and crude as he lifts his hips and tightens his grip. He fucks into his own fist imagining it was someone else’s, moaning into the empty air, hips pushing up and up, chasing release. He sees Noctis in his mind’s eye, shirtless and welcoming, his porcelain-pale flesh laid out amongst the finery of his bed, and Ignis growls between grit teeth, tightening his grip. He comes with a stuttered cry, shaking apart in the cage of his own sorry fingers, alone and bereft.

The lingering taste of merlot has grown stale on his tongue. He breathes and breathes, chest heaving, eyes wide and pleading. There’s a striking moment when he thinks he can’t do this anymore, where he considers resigning and moving far away, far enough away that the influence of Noct’s impish grin would no longer haunt him, but he pushes the notion to the back of his mind and sinks into the mattress with a defeated sigh.

As always, he ultimately decides that it’s better to suffer at his king’s side than not serve him at all. Shame claws at his chest as he cleans the mess from his taut stomach, feeling as frail as a handspun vase of glass. He _can_ endure this. He can, and he will.

The stained-glass light from the neighboring Tempestas cathedral casts fragmented shapes of color across his bedsheets as he drifts asleep, his mind heavy with regret and the shattered pretense of hope. A storm rears up as he succumbs to slumber, lightning striking far in the distance, filling his ears and dreams with thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've been pretty sick and haven't felt like writing. I hope you enjoyed this, anyway. The plot kicks in next chapter so please stay tuned!


	3. Supplication

Ignis, for the first time in his long tenure, wakes with the bells. His head throbs in time with each thunderous clang and he groans toward the ceiling, clawing at the crust that coats the seams of his eyes. Flashes of the night before skitter behind his eyelids; giddy laughter and starlight and a king’s bargain. They had all acted like children. In the moment it had felt freeing, cathartic, but here in the aftermath, in the twisted ruin of his lonely bed, garbed in yesterday’s clothes and stinking of stale wine, Ignis knows it was all a mistake. He had been careless, exposing himself like a lovesick teenager. As the Hand of the King, he should act more reserved. He can’t afford to carry cracks in his armor.

His entire body aches, thrumming from head to toe, as he slides off the bed, as though every inch of his sweat-drenched skin is bruised. He pushes the pain to the back of his mind and tries to focus on his duties.

One of Ignis’ greatest strengths has always lain in how he handles failure. He doesn’t tend to agonize over the past, instead pieces apart each fault in his actions until he can slice open the underbelly of truth. Every mistake is a learning experience, and in that moment he finds retribution through the haze of shame.

He knows the Faultline, here, knows the solution to his own shortcoming.

He pads over to his washroom and strips, turns the shower as hot as it will go. He doesn’t so much as flinch as he steps beneath the boiling-hot stream. This is a baptism as much as a morning ritual; he silently vows from this point onward to lock the parched husk of his heart away for good, displaying nothing on the surface but regal propriety. Solemn and steadfast, unyielding and constant as the sunrise – that is his role as the royal advisor. If he must eschew his own feelings for the sake of his king, he thinks, then so be it. He has carried heavier burdens.

+++

He’s running pomade-coated fingers through his hair when there’s a shallow knock at the door. It isn’t the heavy rasp of Gladio’s fist nor the jittery cadence of Prompto’s sharp knuckles.

He knows it isn’t Noct, because he never knocks.

Ignis opens the door and raises a brow at his unlikely visitor. It’s one of the many errand-runners who scurry about the castle like worker ants, but this one in particular sticks out in his mind due to his strange mannerisms. He’s an eager, anxious thing, always worrying at his hands, always looking to the king and council with nothing but the most earnest respect in his watery, grey eyes.

“Good morning, Tomlin,” Ignis intones. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Y-your Grace,” the poor boy sputters. Then, as an afterthought, bends into a hasty bow. “You told me, if we ever received any, erm, _strange_ mail, to come straight to you.”

“Quite right,” Ignis affirms. Tomlin brightens a bit, seemingly thrilled by the encouragement, however small.

“Well, here,” the boy says, and thrusts a letter toward him. The paper is heavy and inlaid at the corners with latticework reminiscent of the finest, most delicate lace. There’s an elaborate cobalt wax seal at its center, the wing-and-dart crest of Altissia.

“Thank you, Tomlin,” Ignis says automatically, his focus entirely arrested by the strange letter. “You were right to bring this to my attention.”

The boy bobs his head, his haphazard nest of dark curls bouncing with the motion.

“Have a good morning, Your Grace,” he squeaks and turns to leave. After two steps he mutters “oh” before stiffening and spinning around to bow awkwardly once more. Tomlin, seemingly mortified by his own lapse in etiquette, then bolts away in a nervous blur. Ignis would find the whole interaction terribly endearing were he not so concerned with the ominous piece of mail clutched in his trembling grasp.

He carefully breaks the seal and lifts the crisp letter from its envelope, unfolding the paper to reveal elegant, looping penmanship. He reads and rereads the message, his frown deepening with each passing moment. The message isn’t overtly threatening, but there’s a hidden agenda buried beneath the cordial words, a vague undercurrent of malice. Ignis tucks the letter into his breastpocket and takes to pacing the length of his bedchamber. He withdraws his phone and calls Gladio, never ceasing in his restless march. The gruff man answers on the third ring, as per usual.

 _“Why are you awake.”_ It’s a statement more than a question, his sandpaper voice harsh from dehydration.

“Meet us in the council room on the East Wing. Come as quickly as you can.”

Gladio doesn’t press for details, only says, _“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”_ The line goes dead.

Rather than calling, he opts to merely text Prompto, as it is his preferred method of communication. The blond responds immediately with a barrage of questions flanked by frantic-looking emojis, which Ignis ignores. He trusts him to arrive within the hour.

The folded paper presses against his heartbeat like a brand, reiterating a notion Ignis has held since darkness first befell them: that peace is short-lived, and his life is one dismal cycle of turmoil, a serpent swallowing its own tail. He sighs, resigned to his fate.

“Never a dull moment,” he says aloud. His rich voice echoes in the empty chamber, bouncing back at him like an accusation.

+++

Ignis strides into the throne room like a man on a death march. He lifts his chin toward his king, the air of challenge in his shovelcut jaw. As expected, Noctis is threadbare with exhaustion, appearing smaller beneath his crooked mantle, with a few strands of unwashed hair clinging to his forehead. He’s sunken into the ruby cushion, looking for all the world like he’d only just awoken from a nap, but his eyes widen a fraction as the advisor approaches.

“Iggy-“

“Your Majesty,” Ignis cuts him off with a stiff bow. He will give no quarter; there is nothing but resolute respect in his tone, having carefully plucked out any notes of softness or familiarity. As he ascends the staircase, he can see the shadow of alarm shutter across Noct’s countenance.

“I have taken the liberty of rescheduling your morning meetings,” the advisor intones. “A concerning letter has been brought to my attention.” Here he plucks the folded parchment from his vest and passes it over. Even with the letter in his hands, Noctis’ gaze lingers on his advisor, on the cold, detached posture and steely gaze. He looks like he’s about to speak, lips parted in question, before he evidently thinks better of it and finally dips his head to read the message.

After a couple of minutes, he murmurs, “This sounds like a trap.”

“I thought so, as well. Gladiolus and Prompto will arrive any moment now. I suggested we meet in the East Wing to discuss the best course of action.”

Noct visibly flinches at the use of their friends’ full names.

“I will see you there, Majesty,” Ignis says before giving a shallow bow and turning to leave. Noctis’ hand shoots out then, quick as a lightning strike, and curls around his advisor’s forearm.

“ _Wait_.”

There’s a tremulous quality to his voice, a raw vulnerability that picks at the ice Ignis had built around his heart. He sounds as lost as he’d been over a decade prior, unsure of his future and broken down from the weight of his father’s lofty expectations. Ignis doesn’t turn to face him, he _can’t_. He’ll rattle apart if he looks into those ocean-blue eyes now.

“Iggy, about last night, I’m _sorry_. I thought-“

“Am I dismissed?” the advisor interrupts. _Please, spare me_ , he wants to snap. _Have some mercy_.

He can hear the quick intake of breath behind him, Noct hissing as though struck. The grip on his arm tightens incrementally before falling away.

“Yeah,” the king breathes, bitter. “You’re _dismissed_.”

A gulf yawns open between them, widening with every step as Ignis descends the staircase, his prim footfalls measuring the distance. The ghost of Noctis’ touch lingers on his forearm as he exits the throne room and makes his way toward the East Wing. A storm is growing in the cage of his ribs; he can almost feel the fissure of electricity splitting his skin, infusing his cells with a cold brand of rage.

Dangerous, detached, not unlike Ramuh himself.

+++

Noctis, despite dwelling in the castle, is the last to arrive. The council room is spartan and sleek, with a long, black marble table flanked by heavy, stitched leather chairs. The stone walls are elegantly adorned with decorative candelabra and little else. This is a space for clandestine meetings, not a room meant to impress.

Ignis sits presumptuously at the head of the table, with Prompto and Gladio on either side. Noct shuffles in and takes a seat beside his Shield, offering nothing in way of a greeting. Tension hangs syrup-thick between them, and when Ignis speaks, his voice is as sharp and startling as a whip-crack.

“A letter from Altissia was delivered this morning,” he says before tossing the paper to the center of the table. Gladio is the first to snatch it up, dark eyes darting back and forth as he absorbs the message.

“Ravus has requested an audience with a Lucian Ambassador to discuss trade routes. This, in and of itself, is unconcerning, however-“

“He wants us to send someone _alone…_ to their neck of the woods?” Gladio blurts, his incisors bared like a ravenous wolf.

“-Yes. He was very clear on that particular point.”

“But-“ Prompto starts, his voice wavering with uncertainty, “that makes it sound like-“

“-a trap,” Gladio interjects. There’s tension in his broad shoulders, the yellow glint of distrust in his gaze.

“Precisely.”

Silence descends once more, the nervous quiet of four men who know Betrayal intimately. Prompto fidgets in his seat, looking beseechingly at Ignis as though he possesses all the answers in the universe. Noctis has yet to speak, still stares and stares into the swirling marble tabletop, his loose fringe concealing his eyes.

“I say we tell ‘em to fuck off,” Gladio rumbles, breaking the silence.

“We could. On the off chance that this request is genuine, however, it may be in our best interest to cooperate. Our relationship with Altissia has been… tenuous, of late. I would not wish to spurn a new ally.”

Here Ignis pauses to look pointedly at his brooding king.

“Besides,” he continues, an unwitting edge to his voice, “ _His Majesty_ brought back the sun. Surely any past grievances would be forgiven.”

Noctis doesn’t respond.

“Look, Iggy, I’m not as good with politics as you, but even _I_ can read between the lines here,” Gladio growls, thwapping the back of his hand against the letter for emphasis.

“In that case, the meeting would serve as an opportunity to gain intel on a potential threat to the Crown,” the advisor says coolly. Gladio relents after a beat of consideration, sinking slowly into his chair.

“Fair point.”

“I could go,” Prompto volunteers, lifting a hand. “I’m charming, right? What’re they gonna do against little old me?” He gives a cheeky wink, and Ignis, in his deep-seated bid to maintain decorum, has to repress the urge to chuckle.

“Nah,” says the Shield. “No offense Prompt, but you’re not the most… _verbose_.”

Gladio then turns to Ignis, his mouth set in a grim line.

“You up for it, Specs?”

This is the point in which Noctis finally intercedes, flattening his palms on the tabletop with a sneer.

“No way.”

Ignis inclines his head at the king’s outburst.

“I imagine I would be the obvious choice, Majesty. I have the most training when it comes to foreign relations, and in the event of an… _altercation_ , I can hold my own with a blade.”

“Tch, yeah,” Gladio chimes in. “He sure as hell kicked _my_ ass.”

“I’m not sending Ignis,” Noctis reiterates. “He’s too… important.”

“Maybe we’re being paranoid,” Prompto chirps. “I mean, Ravus _helped_ us before. I know he’s kinda hard to read but…” he trails off, waving his hands in an inscrutable gesture.

“Yeah, and Iggy kicked _his_ ass too. Look, Noct, there’s no other way around it. He’s our best bet.”

For a moment, it looks as though the king might jump to his feet, unsheathe his sword, and cut them all down. There’s a wild sheen to his eyes, the same tethered fury of a cornered animal. Ignis braces himself for the inevitable surge of anger, but after an overwrought moment, the tension eases from Noct’s frame in breath-measured increments. When the king exhales, Ignis knows he has been swayed.

“Alright.” He still won’t turn to face anyone. “When are you leaving?”

“I had planned to depart at dawn.”

Noctis gives a shaky nod.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Without warning, he rises so suddenly that his chair scrapes noisily against the slate floor. He then turns on the heel of his boot and storms out of the room, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him. Prompto is quick to give chase, concern written all over his face.

Gladio lingers behind, his gaze still trained on the advisor.

“So, what the hell crawled up your ass and died?” he asks, aplomb nothing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Bull_ shit. Something’s going on; you’re acting like a robot.”

Ignis sweeps to his feet in one elegant motion and straightens his cuffs. He inclines his head toward the Shield, an overly formal act given their history.

“I must prepare for tomorrow.”

He leaves with Gladio grumbling obscenities at the retreating plane of his back.

+++

Maps in varying levels of detail are sprawled across the cherrywood surface of his study. He pours over the roadways and landmarks, stitching the locales to his own buried memories.

Ignis has never returned to Altissia, not since he wore the ring.

A phantom pain strikes at his eye then, always a cruel reminder, and he unconsciously raises a palm to cover the scar, wincing at the miserable, prickling sensation. There is one memory which will never fade; the thrum of divine, unfiltered power infusing his bloodstream, paired with the gripping, unyielding shadow of fear. He remembers the premonition: Noct pinned to the throne by his own blades, his blood trickling from the landing in little rivulets to pool at Ignis’ feet. A glimpse into another future, another timeline where he’d been too slow, too weak in his devotion. He traces the bulk of the dagger strapped to his sternum, distantly wondering what he would have done had Noctis’ death come to pass.

It isn’t worth dwelling on, he knows, but the grief that floods his chest at the mere _thought_ is too powerful to ignore. Ignis doesn’t cry, but in the moment he can feel an uncomfortable lump form in the back of his throat. He swallows hard and tries in vain to clear the macabre image that will forever be seared onto the forefront of his psyche.

He’s shaken from his morbid reverie by a _click_ and the subtle scrape of wood against tile. Ignis gasps in alarm and twists around when he hears his chamber door swing open. Noctis lets himself in, as he sometimes does, and when his brows immediately draw together in concern, Ignis realizes that his fingertips are still tracing the scarred flesh about his eye.

“Ah. Your Majesty,” he greets, snatching his hand down to rest in his lap.

Noctis seems scorned by the formal title but doesn’t protest, just silently pads across the room to perch on the edge of Ignis’ desk.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” he lies, but his answer is too quick, too rehearsed, and Noct jerks his head away as though burned. The cold demeanor he’d clung to like a lifeline begins to crumble once more as he studies the anguish in the hollows beneath Noctis’ broken gaze, and he silently curses himself when he amends, “I have the occasional bout of pain. Nothing too severe.”

The king softens a bit at the admission.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs for the second time that day. Ignis isn’t sure if he’s referring to the wound or their near-tryst the night before.

“So am I.”

The muted light from Ignis’ desk lamp softens the king’s sharp features, shaping him into something out of a classical painting: the ethereal savior in repose. His thick lashes are the stroke of a masterful paintbrush, his prominent collarbones the underdrawing for a portrait of some ancient, lauded warrior. Ignis wonders if anyone else sees what he sees in the king, doubts others have the eye to piece apart the innumerable attractive facets of his form. He thinks he appreciates the many contrasts of Noctis’ person the most; dark hair against porcelain skin, a rugged, bearded jaw offset by a light, teasing voice, the small, elegant hands that could fell entire armies with their unmitigated strength. He’s danger and sunrise, favored by the gods and yet so terribly human.

Ignis wants to curl around him like a sun-starved string of ivy, hoard his warmth for himself. Noctis is the only one who cripples him like this, reducing him to a selfish, needful thing.

“Can I get you anything?” he questions at length, needing to busy his hands before he can spill the confession that is always at the tip of his tongue.

_I could cook those pastries you like, Majesty, could even dust them with more powdered sugar than is strictly healthy. Just issue the command; I’m at your disposal. You can shape me like molded clay into whatever you want; I’ll blindly follow, will subjugate myself to your every whim, you know I will._

“No,” Noct says, voice tight. “Is this a bad time?”

“Of course not,” Ignis snaps at once. _So much for ‘professional propriety,’_ he thinks, bitterly. Bending to his king is second-nature at this point, an instinct embedded into his very DNA. He thinks himself foolish for ever entertaining the notion that he could pretend otherwise.

“I’m worried. About tomorrow.”

The advisor's traitorous lips quirk into a knowing grin. He offers a hand, much in the same way he had when they first met as children.

“Come now, have some faith in me,” he murmurs around a soft smile.

A strange expression crosses Noctis’ face, then. He slips from the desk and regards Ignis for one intense moment, leering down at him as though seeing him for the first time. The advisor begins to think he has somehow overstepped and considers withdrawing, when the king clasps his hand, covering it with his own, then pulls him to his feet and right into a tight embrace.

All at once, each of his sharp senses are flooded by Noctis; it’s as if the rest of the world bleeds from existence, utterly unimportant in comparison. He’s paralyzed at first, shell-shocked, unable to move with the king’s soft hair brushing against the side of his head and thin fingers clutching at the back of his shirt, as though he’s an anchor. He can smell Noct’s coconut shampoo, and beneath that, the underlying, earthy scent of him - like petrichor and lakewater. Best of all, Noct’s breaths are hot and fast against his neck, and though Ignis has been slow to react, blind-sided as he is, the king doesn’t step away, instead tries to draw him impossibly closer.

When his faculties eventually return, Ignis hesitantly lets one hand land at the small of Noct’s back, while the other settles at the nape of his neck, his short-cut nails grazing softly against the fine hairs he finds there. Their hearts are a riot, thumping erratically as if to escape the cage of their chests. Ignis wishes he could smooth Noct’s nerves like a dog-eared page, assure him that there is never anything to fear when they are together. Soldiers or sorcerers, daemons or vengeful gods – it doesn’t matter, Ignis will always protect him. He was willing to damn the world, to offer up his own soul, in order to save his king; everything else seems paltry in comparison.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” Noctis whispers, his breath ghosting against Ignis’ neck. He shudders involuntarily at the sensation.

He wants to scoff at Noct’s request; of _course_ he could never, in good conscience, make such a guarantee. He’s self-assured in his abilities (and rightfully so), but every mission carries an inevitable mortal risk.

Still, cocooned as he is in Noct’s warmth, he knows the king could ask him to wrangle the moon at this point and he’d probably find some way to make it happen.

“You have my word,” he rasps.

He feels the king tense at his words, drawing into him with a broken noise that is the lovechild of a sigh and a sob. Ignis takes to tracing circles on his back with the pads of his fingers, a gesture that he hopes is soothing. It does the trick; Noctis slowly melts under the hypnotic touch, and after they’d clung together for long enough to shatter any sort of plausible deniability, he gently draws away.

Noctis’ hands are still planted firmly on his shoulders. They’re only an arm’s length apart, but it doesn’t stop every stitch of his body from screaming in protest at the loss of contact. The king looks deep into his eyes, and for a moment Ignis wonders if his feelings aren’t so one-sided, after all. Noctis’ gaze speaks of heartbreak and yearning. His lips are parted, as though in expectation, and the advisor considers finally crossing that gulf, sealing them together in the only way they’d never been.

The moment passes quickly, however. Noctis’ eyes drop to the floor between their feet and his hands skirt down Ignis’ sleeves, lingering at the cuffs, before falling away to his own sides.

“Get some rest,” he says, barely above a whisper. “That big brain of yours needs to be at full capacity for tomorrow.” Before Ignis can even _attempt_ to formulate a reply, the king turns and leaves as abruptly as he’d come.

Absently, Ignis traces the tendons of his neck, where he could _feel_ Noct’s treasured words not even a minute before. Time seems to grind to a halt as he recalls his foolish promise, his bedchamber transforming into a static, liminal space as he muses. There’s a shift in his methodology, some essential piece of his worldview clicking into place. Noctis didn’t cling to anyone _else_ in such a way, as far as he was aware.

He dares to wonder what awaits him, upon his safe return.

A ferocious sort of determination infuses him, then; he will _not_ disappoint his king. He’ll cut his way through any foe audacious enough to block his path, will sway any political adversary with a silver tongue and an arsenic-laced smile. There are crinkles in his dress shirt from Noctis’ nails and the shadow of rain in the air from his cologne. He isn’t immortal, he knows this, would never stray so far as to chase after Ardyn’s grim pursuits; and yet, he is resolute to uphold his word, his muscles thrumming reflexively with restrained power.

 _I will always come back to you, my King_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I am a Dumb Bitch for comments. I'm also a hypocrite, because I am, myself, super stingy with comments, but please consider dropping an encouraging word if you're enjoying this and have the time. 
> 
> Also I'm not sure why my ignoct lust returned with a vengeance so long after the game dropped. Maybe it's because the game is semi-playable now. Weird.
> 
> xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo


	4. Broken Oath

There’s a canvas rucksack slung across his shoulder as he breaches the curling stonework of the castle’s main entrance, stepping into the bleeding light of dawn. He angles his face toward the sun, eyes shut, idling a moment to steady his nerves. Heat finds him easily here, stood on the landing of dark stone, his shoulder blades drawing back beneath layers of black wool.

Ignis opens his eyes.

The sky is clear and vacant as a stagnant pond. There will be no rain today, no storms – perfect traveling weather.

He sets off down the stairs, steady as the current, never once stumbling over his own pointed boots. It’s strange, he thinks, to know so little and yet remain so calm. His life’s work was built on the premise of knowing. Read enough books, study enough maps, fill your brain with enough history and your foresight can border on omniscience. Ignis is calm in battle because he _knows_ his opponent’s next move, can read it in the picosecond before they strike. The subtle rise of a shoulder can give so much away; the sweep of an arm can speak volumes. Ignis is calm in council meetings because he knows the law more intimately than even the most esteemed lawyer, can parry each spoken point of dissention with eloquent speech and unyielding logic.

He should _not_ be calm as he departs on a solitary mission, to travel far from the safety of his own city and commune with a man as broken and frigid as Ravus. Lucians have only ever brought tragedy to the man’s doorstep, sweeping in on wings of death to claim his sister and plunge his people into a lightless decade. Ignis does not expect a warm welcome when he goes to stand in the ocean-born city, drenched in inky finery and armed with a torrent of folded steel.

Still, perhaps foolishly, there is no tremor in his stride as he picks his way across the front garden, ducking beneath arbors dripping with ivy, to arrive at the royal stable.

Noctis, miracle of miracles, is awake and dressed, already waiting in the barn’s blessed shade, with his beard freshly trimmed and his hair neatly styled. Dusk, his favored chocobo, the fastest mount Ignis has ever seen, tamps impatiently at the packed earth with her curved talons. The king pulls at her bridle, drawing her closer, bidding her to still as Ignis approaches. The advisor runs an appreciative hand across her flank, upending the inkblot feathers as he passes. Hesitating only a moment, Noctis offers up the reins.

“Good morning, Noct,” he greets, accepting the braided leather with a grateful dip of his chin.

“Morning.”

The king cuts a fine figure against the orange glow of sunrise, drawn tall and fierce as a mote of flame. His presence here, dressed in flowing regalia yet standing undeterred in the muck and straw, wraps fingers of adoration around Ignis’ neck. Noctis has always been radiant in his humility, has always kept close to the earth despite his regal blood. Enraptured, Ignis holds his king’s gaze as he digs a boot into the stirrup and hefts himself onto the saddle. Dusk shuffles forward and backward in the closed-off space, eager to dart out toward the horizon.

“Text me when you get there,” Noctis says, his mouth set in a grim line. As if Ignis needs reminding. As if his every footfall, his every inhalation, his every thought and action aren’t dictated by the word and sake of his king.

_I would never forget. Would never. Do you know, you never leave my mind? I see you in everything, in the sunrise, in the starlight. I see you in my vacant rooms and burned behind my eyelids. You needn’t even ask; I always see you._

He could tip over, there on a damned chocobo of all things, could let his wretched tongue spill the words he has kept hidden behind his Adam’s apple for years and years. It’s never the right place, never the right time - certainly not before he embarks for a foreign political meeting.

Ignis swallows thickly, then nods.

“Of course.”

The king bends forward to press his nose against Dusk’s pale beak.

“Keep him safe, okay?” he whispers. The fowl seems to croon something in the affirmative, earning a fond laugh from her rider.

Noctis pauses, then, with his fingers twisted into dusty feathers, and peers up at his advisor, his brows cinched together as though pained.

“Don’t forget your promise.”

Ignis flashes a doting, easy smile and pulls a hand to his heart – a silent vow.

“I will see you soon, Your Majesty.”

Mollified, the king steps away with a reluctant grin of his own, and Ignis lightly kicks his heels against Dusk’s belly. The chocobo shoots forward, powerful legs erupting into a swift cadence at the onset, and he doesn’t look back as they peal off toward the coast.

+++

Here he is again, chasing edges. The edge of a kingdom, the edge of a landmass, the edge of his fealty. Ignis frowns as the air grows heavy with saltwater; the ocean, violent and unforgiving, has never been kind to him. They’re in the thick of a forest, guided only by moonlight, and Dusk is tireless on the steadfast trunks of her legs, even after a full day’s travel. She weaves between the skinny trees, fluid as fingertips raking across water. There’s no surface tension here, not out in the untouched wilderness; the clever beast is in her element. Ignis had relinquished his grip on the reins hours ago, only occasionally nudging her haunches with a heel to keep her on the right trajectory.

She knows the way, somehow, some inexplicable force guiding each assured footfall.

Ride long enough and the landscape falls away, leaving you alone with your own ghosts. There’s a marked drawback to boasting such a sharp wit - an incessant string of thoughts that swirl through Ignis’ mind like an endless marquee. He knows he is a stranger here. The humid night air seeps beneath the fabric of his King’s Glaive uniform and presses right up against his flesh, drawing a cool sheen of sweat from his pores. He shifts uncomfortably as he bounces in the saddle, and Dusk trills in annoyance at his fidgeting.

 _Who am I, to these people?_ He wonders. _A bespectacled phantom? Will they think I’ve ridden in on the pretense of ill will?_

All at once, he’s painfully aware of the metallic weight strapped to his chest. He’s a wolf in the woods, and no measure of tucked teeth or sheathed daggers will ever change that fact.

He hears the break of waves well before he catches the first glimpse of Galdin Quay. It’s the _shush-shush-shush_ of the ocean-deep shattering against the shoreline, the eternal battle of the sea against a steadfast jut of stone. Ignis runs a hand through his hair. It has fallen loose, windswept and curled with salt. He’s unraveling, slowly, the nearer they draw to their destination.

Ignis’ leather-stung hands are balled into tense fists when they finally emerge into a clearing, and Dusk comes to an abrupt halt at the treeline. The advisor studies the coastal town below, drinks in the artisan buildings lit from within by orange lamps. Exhausted as he is, he can still admire the quaint scene lain out before him like a starlit oil painting. There are white concrete houses accented by dark oak shutters. Ships trouble at the many docks, bobbing up and down as their hulls rock with the steady assault of waves, their drawn sails reduced to mere brushstrokes of grey against the reapercloth sky. There’s music drifting upward; he can hear the faint strains of acoustic instruments, even from his place so far above, each plucked note as light and airy as a prayer.

Ignis leans forward and scratches appreciatively at Dusk’s crest.

“We’ve almost arrived, sweet girl. Just a little farther.”

He snaps the reins and the fowl strikes forward once more.

+++

Even so late at night, the plazas are replete with loose throngs of vibrant people – men with sundrenched skin in half-undone linen shirts, and women in bright, cascading skirts that drift about their delicate ankles. They drink and dance, twirling around one another like carefree gypsies. There’s a dreamy quality to the town, with lights strung up across every walkway and musicians gathered at every corner. The atmosphere here is loose and languid, a far cry from the cold, imposing structure of Insomnia. Ignis feels absurd in his pressed uniform and polished silver buttons. He stands there, an outsider, in leather boots that glint in the low light, sticking out amongst the many pairs of bare, sandaled feet.

Despite the wisps of uncertainty that flicker across his thoughts, no one here is overtly unkind. Free-flowing liquor and the placating song of the ocean have shaped the Quay’s residents into gentle, easy-going folk. Nonetheless, Ignis catches the wary gazes that linger on his shadowy form as he leads Dusk toward the nearest inn. His own collar smells of sweat and cedarwood, with a fresh tinge of seasalt - a constant reminder that he is far from the sharpcut sanctuary of his home. Dusk picks up on his apprehension and pulls at her lead, trying in vain to jerk him back toward the forest. He shushes her, muttering soft nonsense that he hopes will translate into comfort. The stubborn beast never stills entirely, but does fall obediently into line, swayed into submission by his silky, cultured words.

A valet stationed outside the Quayside Cradle graciously pulls Dusk to stable, and so Ignis pushes eagerly into the refuge of the posh hotel.

+++

Walls of thick-cut sandstone and a tasteful array of potted palms exude an air of effortless luxury as he pads down the hall to his room. His key card works on the first swipe, and as the door shuts behind him, the weariness of a long day’s journey settles on his shoulders like an iron sheet. He shrugs off his travel bag and pauses to send a quick text to the king.

**_I just checked in to my room. Nothing of note to report._ **

To his surprise, the phone immediately blares to life, buzzing with Noctis’ beloved name.

Ignis answers right away.

“Your Majesty,” he intones. It’s a little indulgent, a little mischievous, as he knows the needlessly formal greeting will ruffle Noct’s feathers.

_“Really, Specs? Did the entire royal council follow you to Galdin Quay? You guys holding a secret meeting?”_

“Hilarious as ever, I see.”

The king chuckles, the playful lilt of his voice rumbling right against Ignis’ ear. He shuts his eyes and tries _not_ to imagine that Noct is there with him, behind him, leaning forward to whisper teases into the side of his face (he fails).

_“So, no hiccups along the way?”_

“None whatsoever. That clever bird has a remarkable sense of direction. Better than yours, at any rate.”

_“Ha-ha. Who’s the comedian now?”_

Ignis huffs out a laugh and lets his head fall back against the shut door. He hasn’t even flicked on the lights yet, is still standing in relative darkness. Only a muted, orange glow seeps in from the windows, throwing back the suggestion of a desk, of a bed.

 _“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”_ Noctis questions, and his tone has dropped back into something somber, dire. Ignis hates the weight in his words, wants to lift the concern from each syllable and burn it into ash.

“The first ferry departs at five, so I plan to set sail bright and early.”

He expects Noctis to grouse about the impossible time, to insist that no human should ever suffer to be awake so soon before dawn. Instead, the line falls silent, quiet enough that Ignis might have thought he’d lost the call, were it not for the king’s steady breaths.

 _“Keep me posted,”_ he says at length. _“Let me know when you get on the boat. And when you get to Altissia.”_

“Of course.”

_“How long do you think the meeting will last?”_

There’s an edge to the question. It’s pitched at the end, desperate, pleading. Ignis wonders if Noct is trying to measure the seconds between now and when he returns to Insomnia, and the thought shoots an ache right through his core.

“Difficult to say,” the advisor admits. “I’m afraid the letter was rather vague on that point.”

 _“It was ‘vague’ on a lot of points,”_ Noctis snaps back. _“I don’t_ like _this Iggy, maybe we should just call it off. We can write back, at least ask for more details-“_

“Noct.”

Ignis hates the strain in his own voice, the years of wear finally breaking through the thin threads of his once limitless composure.

 _I would hold you now, again, if I could_ , he thinks. He wonders if he could fold Noctis up in his arms, shield him from the doubts that always seem cling to the hem of his king’s mantle like errant burrs.

There’s a slow exhale on the line - submission.

_“Yeah. I know.”_

_What do you know?_ Ignis wants to press.

_(Do you know how much I adore you?)_

_“Just – I know I keep saying it but…_ be careful _.”_

“I will,” Ignis swears. Two words, spoken easily, but he is more earnest in that moment than he’s ever been.

The message must carry across, because Noctis sighs in resignation.

_“Alright, you’d better get some rest. G’night, Iggy.”_

“Sleep well, Noct.”

He ends the call and lets his arm fall limp to his side, his grasp so loose on the phone that it nearly slips away and clamors to the tile below. The stanzas of his life have always been broken up by empty rooms, and here he is again, repeating like a lonesome chorus. In the end, he doesn’t even bother to turn on the lights; he can see well enough in the dark (he had ten years of practice). He plucks open the buttons of his own coat, unpeels the uniform from his own skin, folds the articles neatly over a chairback. Practiced motions, easy as instinct. Ignis crawls into the overlarge bed and curls in on himself, just like every other night. Every cell of his creation longs for something to press up against, for a ready warmth to steady him, to match the care of his own giving hands.

 _“Be careful,”_ a fear-laden voice echoes in his mind as he drifts into a fitful slumber.

_I will, I will, I will._

+++

A throng of sea-goers are already slouching around the docks as Ignis approaches the ferry, with Dusk trailing behind at the end of her short lead. It’s still dark, but there’s the suggestion of light far down the horizon, a subtle azure glow that hints at the sun’s approach, blotting out the weaker stars. Seabirds scatter on the driftwood fenceposts, squawking in interest as fishermen gather up their coolers and pouches of fresh bait. Ignis represses a chuckle as he observes one such fellow, buttoned up in a yellow raincoat, who curses and flails his arms at the winged pests. They retreat for the briefest moment, taking to the air only to glide a lazy circle and land right back where they’d been before.

The wind carries a terrible, night-touched chill, and for the first time since he ventured so far south, Ignis is grateful for the insulating dark wool of his uniform. The boat that will take him to Altissia is unremarkable – the white hull is stained brown with ocean muck and flimsy, rusted-through rails wobble precariously about the modest deck. He pushes forward anyway, trusting the vessel to maintain its integrity for at least one more round trip.

Only a few others shuffle in after him. The tourists must still be asleep, he reasons. They all spread out, each laying claim to their own section of railing, every gaze focused on the choppy waves. Dusk marches in place, her worrydance eyes flitting this way and that, no doubt unsettled to be surrounded by water on all sides. Ignis rakes his fingers down her neck, repeating a soft-spoken mantra of _“shhh, it’s alright, it’s alright.”_

“Let’s push off,” the captain hollers, after a time. A young, lanky boy runs to untie the thick ropes that anchor them to the docks, and in the next moment, the motor roars to life, vibrating through the entire ship. Ignis draws the phone from his pocket just as they drift away, dutifully sending a brief message to his king: **_Leaving now._**

Unease carves a home in his bloodstream as the coast steadily fades from view. He has trained and fought on every terrain imaginable, but never here, never in the eye of the ocean. He blinks and sees a younger Noctis laid out, unconscious, on the ground, the sea raging like Ignis’ heart, blinks again and catches the sanguine stain of blood spreading across Luna’s dress. The advisor has always preened under the praise of others, those who would marvel at his fox-wit, and he feels very much like a fox in the moment – one which has stepped unwittingly into a hunter’s clawtrap, where all the cleverness in the world wouldn’t save him from the bite of iron teeth into his flesh.

 _Altissia is no paradise,_ he thinks.

One of the other passengers is leaned over the creaky railing, upheaving his breakfast into the unforgiving deep. The captain casually upends a flask from his place at the helm, drinking deeply. A mousy girl on the opposite edge of the deck sinks down to the moldy planks and hugs her knees to her chest. Ignis finds silent camaraderie in the small group of strangers, who all seem equally as haunted. It’s the strangest brand of comfort: _Misery loves company_ , indeed.

+++

Hours pass. The sun bears down upon them like a merciless spotlight, searing their salt-stung skin and drying the whites of their eyes. Ignis keeps his gaze forward, focused on the horizon, filled with equal parts impatience and dread as he searches for land. Dusk has long since taken to a restful nap, her feathered head bent back to fit beneath the refuge of a folded wing.

When Altissia eventually bleeds into view, through the heatwave ripple of air, Ignis marshals himself. He has a promise to uphold, after all.

The other passengers begin to stir, shuffling in place, intrigued by the notion of solid earth beneath their feet. 

They finally pull to dock, and the same lanky young man from before is quick to anchor the vessel to shore. While the other passengers scramble to step off, Ignis climbs up into the shoddy hull to slip a generous tip to the captain. He’s grey-eyed and grey-bearded, smelling of brandy, and he accepts the note with an uneven, toothy grin, tucking it away into a stained pocket. He pauses to sweep Ignis’ dark clothing, and his brows shoot upward in intrigue.

“You aren’t from ‘round here, are you?” he questions.

Ignis straightens a bit, compulsively smooths the lapels of his coat.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Best to lay low, then. The people here aren’t too keen on outsiders, not since the whole-“ here the captain breaks off to wave his hand in an inscrutable gesture that Ignis nonetheless understands.

“So I’ve heard.”

+++

The heart of Altissia is abuzz with elegant, sharply dressed people gliding through the alabaster streets, nothing of warmth in their fierce gazes. Ignis cuts through the crowd like a knife, keeping his own eyes steady, never once faltering as he leads Dusk away toward the west end of the city. He catches glimpses of the local architecture as he passes, feeling pointedly out of place in his dark ensemble while striding through a city of light. Pristine spires of limestone twist up to rake against the clouds, the harsh sunlight glinting off snow-white brick.

They meander through the narrow streets and eventually break out into the more rural edge of Altissia, where fishermen’s huts and anak farms scatter across fields of yellow wheatgrass.

He’s close.

Ignis hefts himself onto Dusk’s back and ushers her forward. They split through the golden stalks, forcing a path toward the meeting place. Wayward farmhands turn to watch as they shoot by, lifting their hats in intrigue at the dark man on a dark mount.

+++

When he reaches his destination, he slides from Dusk’s back and pulls his phone from a pocket. He punches a quick text to his king: **_I have arrived._**

The response is immediate, coming only a few seconds after his initial message.

**_Let me know as soon as it’s over._ **

**_I’m serious, I’ll blow up your phone if I don’t hear anything in an hour._ **

Ignis spares a chuckle, warmed by Noct’s unwavering concern.

**_I will speak with you soon. Do try not to set the castle aflame in my absence._ **

Noctis replies with an eyeroll emoji and that’s the end of that.

He had navigated per the letter’s instructions, and the building in which the meeting will take place is woefully unremarkable, set in a vacant clearing, far from the city’s center. Flimsy wood painted white and riddled with mold is off-set by tinted windows, and battery soldiers patrol the perimeter, their magitek firearms hefted around with unease. Ignis slides from the saddle and pulls Dusk close by her bridle.

“You had best take off,” he whispers, “I will call for you when it’s time.”

He has no idea if the sweet beast truly understands, but when he grips her beak and peers into those fathomless, black eyes, he finds a spark of cognition there, and that’s enough. He releases his hold on her and lightly slaps her flank. She peals off, disappearing into the sea of wheatgrass.

Ignis takes a deep breath, inhaling the humid air. He schools his face into an open, beseeching expression, wide eyes and the hint of a smile. He’s a mimic, shapeshifting into something that appears harmless, pulling on a sheepskin to cover his fangs. As he approaches the soldiers, he keeps his shoulders drawn in. _Don’t puff out your chest_ , he directs himself, _don’t go issuing any silent challenges_. His gait is looser, less the stern march of a practiced combatant and more the unsure footfalls of a bookish tourist.

 _You can trust me_ , he says with his open hands, fingers loose from where they sway at his sides. Nothing in his palms but empty air, nothing of daggers or fire.

 _You can trust me_ , he says with the obliging nod of his chin, greeting the soldiers as they huddle closer to him, fingers hovering over triggers, shielded heads glinting in the unobscured sunlight.

 _I’m no threat to you_ , he insists in the way he scratches the back of his neck, looking a little lost, a little awkward. _What kind of killer wears spectacles? Look at me, there’s no substance, no bulging musculature. I’m underfed and earnest. I could never harm you (I will)._

The act serves its purpose. The soldiers let their rifles dip toward the loose soil. One of them huffs out a disbelieving laugh from behind his iron grill.

“Ah, hello gentlemen,” Ignis finally speaks, grateful for the posh lilt of his own tone. He knows how he looks to others, how he sounds. He’s just another spoiled nobleman, in his starched designer shirts and perfectly styled hair, with his rich, accented voice and well-manicured hands. He has heard the whispers: _“That guy hasn’t done a hard day’s work in his life.”_ They don’t see the callouses on his fingertips, or the way the tender skin of his palms is worn red and shiny from the leather hilt of a blade. They don’t catch the calculating glint in his eyes behind scholarly glasses, nor do they see the many scars slashed across his torso like tilled clay.

The advisor knows the exact measure of what others do, and do not, see in him. The fools.

Maintaining his façade, he takes to shifting his weight from boot to boot. A parody of anxiety. “I’m the ambassador from Lucii. I received a summons from Ravus and-“

“You came alone?” one of the soldiers interrupts, peering suspiciously over Ignis’ shoulder.

“Y-yes,” Ignis purposefully stammers. _I’m just a petrified, weak waif of a man. Don’t you see?_

“Are you armed?”

There’s the picosecond of consideration, his mind weighing the merits of falsehood. In the end he reasons they will search him either way. Best to be honest, then.

“Of course,” he chirps, directing his brows to climb upward, looking incredulous that they would even ask. “I never leave home without my daggers.”

“How many?”

“One strapped to my chest, two on my hip, six small ones in my boots.”

The soldier leading his interrogation begins to pace around him in a lazy semi-circle. It’s a sinister motion, predatory, meant to intimidate. Ignis gives all the expected cues: a theatrical shiver, square-cut fingernails worrying at his own sleeves. The armored man then nods to his companions, and suddenly Ignis is held in place, a soldier gripping each arm, while a third roughly parts his uniform, snaring the buttons and fumbling with his brace. Instinct almost overpowers wit as his muscles tense reflexively with the urge to knock them together, kick them all over, and embed a flurry of steel in their chests.

They manage to free his primary dagger, then move to the ones tucked into his slacks, and finally lift the smaller knives secreted away in his boots. They pat him down afterward, searching for any other weapons, finding nothing else. Ignis remains pliant throughout the process, radiating fear when only a cool rage courses his veins.

Garbed in metal, from head to toe, not an inch of skin left exposed, they are all like walking lightning rods, and as they prod and pull at the Lucian advisor, they don’t notice the growing storm. Jealous-green eyes flit between them, sizing them up, finding nothing, _nothing_ but simple men with guns. Firearms make soldiers arrogant; Ignis knows this, a point proven innumerable times over the years. How many faceless, dead men have lain out before him, motionless and leaking out onto the blood-ruined earth as he wrenches a dagger from between their ribs? And always nearby, in the lax twist of their fingers or up a few feet on the ground, is a rifle, or pistol; some new magitek weaponry, sophisticated and modern and ultimately useless.

Even Prompto, sweet as an overripe peach, would prance around the battlefield as though he were invincible. Ignis would always catch flashes of light against the barrel of his revolver, right before he’d fall over, mortally wounded, and the advisor would have to run to his aid. Of the four of them, he was always the one more prone to injury. Quicksilver hands, yes, but oblivious as a mule. Ignis knows that men who would curl their fingers around a crescent-moon trigger aren’t well acquainted with fear. Step into the heart of a fight, close enough that you can _feel_ your opponent’s breath, and the fear will make you sharper, swifter, animalistic.

He won’t bare his teeth, however. Not yet. It isn’t time.

“All good,” says the battery soldier who has been groping him for the better part of five minutes. The ones holding his arms step away, and he makes a show of rebuttoning his coat and straightening his sleeves.

“Righto, you can follow me,” the assumed leader grits out. Ignis falls into line, hands clasped submissively at the small of his back. He’s flanked by two others, while the remaining soldiers resume their posts outside.

The interior of the building is a stark contrast to the unkempt exterior. Their boots click against white slate tile, and curved, modern light fixtures buzz from overhead. There is little in the way of décor, but the foundational materials are sleek, new. They walk and walk in silence, steady footfalls carrying them to the very back of the structure. The long entrance hall eventually breaks into a wide, open office, and despite the lofty space, there are only two desks and a smattering of chairs, and no one else to be seen.

The leader removes his helmet and turns to face Ignis head-on. White-blond hair fluffs up from his square face. He has dark eyes and an unruly nest of a beard. Ignis sees it then, jangling about his wrist – a bracelet, made up of cheap, plastic beads in varying shades of pink.

_How odd._

The blond gestures to a metal chair.

“Go on and have a seat.”

Ignis is caught in a triangle of armed men. Three finger-squeezes away from fulfilling his bargain with the Six. There’s no sign of Ravus or a proper royal envoy, and any shred of hope he may have fostered that this meeting was legitimate dies in his chest.

Still, he offers up his most charming smile, hiding a cunning, half-formed plan behind his exposed teeth.

On the farthest desk, the one shoved up against the white-brick wall under a window, is a cup. Ignis had zeroed in on it when they’d first stepped into the space. A cup of indiscriminate tchotchkes, pencils and pens, no doubt some paperclips rattling around in the base. And there, sticking up from it all like a beacon – a silver letter opener.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather remain on my feet. I’ve been travelling nonstop, you see, and-“

The other man rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Nah, ugh, _look_ , this’ll all be a lot easier if you just do what I say, alright? Just-“ he waves his free hand in the vague direction of the chair once more “-sit the fuck down.”

A couple of steel barrels press up against his back to punctuate the point.

“Oh dear,” Ignis quavers, infusing his voice with false concern. He lifts his palms in surrender and picks a meandering path to the chair. He’s a dead man if he sits down now. He needs information, needs to draw the moment out just a while longer. 

“Wait,” he pleads, stopping abruptly. The bite of metal pushes further into his lumbar.

“I know where this is going.” His voice is airy, huffed out around a nervous chuckle. “I can tell you anything you like. I’m the Hand of the King, after all.”

Pink Bracelet squints at him, and he looks exhausted, Ignis thinks. Dark bags under dark eyes, his vellum brows twitching with unease. He carries his own rifle like a bomb, doesn’t swing it around with the aplomb of a trained marksman. An outcast. Uncomfortable and overwhelmed.

“Myeaurgh,” he grumbles inarticulately, brown eyes shooting to the floor, as though he can’t bear to maintain Ignis’ gaze. “Nah, don’t need information. Have a seat.”

The advisor is forcibly shoved forward and has to brace himself on the chairback, bent over like the weakling he has painted himself to be.

 _Well. So much for my try at decorum_ , Ignis thinks, and in the next moment he spins around, kicking the rearmost soldiers in their knees in quick succession. One stumbles to the side and shoots blindly, his aim crooked, missing every shot, leaving a smattering of burning holes pockmarked across the opposite wall.

The other has a steadier aim, falls to his injured knee willingly, and strikes home.

Time slows to a crawl as Ignis glimpses the blooming wetness on his shoulder with a side-glance, his own merlot blood only slightly darker than the inky fabric of his coat. A severed brachial artery. He could bleed out, here in a refurbished shack in a nondescript field outside Altissia. He could crumple in on himself, succumb to the lightning-strike of pain branching from his shoulder outward, slam his eyes shut and just fall over - another casualty in the long line of ill-fated servants to the Lucian crown.

He _could_ concede, but he won’t.

_“Promise you’ll come back (to me).”_

Ignis growls in frustration, finally, _finally_ baring his teeth, the brunt of his anger. He swings out a heel in a perfect arch to collide with the soldier who’d shot him, forcing him flat on the floor. He then pushes the uncertain leader out of his way and darts toward the furthermost desk, wrenches the letter opener from its cup, and reaches for the tethers of magic that still course his veins. The silver spike flares with violet fire, a sorry office implement transformed into a deadly weapon. Heat licks at his palm without burning his own flesh as he bleeds, cracked open, broken down to his basest components. Rage and resentment, and there, at the forefront of his mind: a promise to fulfill.

His vision breaks into frames, flashes of action – Pink Bracelet stumbles backwards as his companion with the sorry aim fumbles with fresh ammunition. The third soldier – a proven marksman - steadies his rifle once more. Ignis ranks the men in order of threat in the span of a breath and flips the blazing letter opener into the air before kicking it with the heel of his boot. The dull blade, heated with Fira, is swiftly embedded in the marksman’s neck, burning right through the thin metal at so tender a junction. The man slumps over, near-motionless, the fingers of his gauntlets twitching with his fading cognition.

_One down._

Pink Bracelet stutters, hovering frantically about the scene rather than moving to strike, so Ignis ignores him, shifts his focus to the other living soldier, who is struggling to his feet against a bum knee. The advisor darts forward, splitting the air like a dagger, knocking him flat on his back with a pointed shoulder before he can attempt to take aim. He wrenches the firearm from the man’s quivering grasp and digs a boot against his neck until he ceases to move.

There will be clawmarks on his calves, later. A dead man’s letter, writ upon his flesh with gauntleted fingertips.

He turns, then, chest heaving, drenched in his own life-force and dizzy with bloodlust. Ignis holds the gaze of the blond soldier as he fumbles with his own rifle, its guard wavering in the air from his trembling grasp. A stand-off, an understanding. The advisor pulls the letter-opener, still ablaze, from the tendons of his felled opponent and holds it out like a challenge. Simple alloy against sophisticated magitek weaponry, an obvious bet to anyone unacquainted with the advisor’s skillset.

In the end, Pink Bracelet drops his firearm, lets it clamor to the bloodstained tile, this man-made pool of red. He raises his hands in submission, bowing his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“They’ll kill her!” he sobs, shoulders drawn tight with obvious grief. “Please-“

Ignis crosses the space between them in a few assured strides and raises the flimsy blade to one tear-stained cheek, just close enough for the persistent lick of flames to dance across the other man’s skin, searing the wiry hairs of his beard.

“What does Ravus _want_?”

The last living soldier is trembling, his head angled away, gulping down air.

“S’not-“ he manages, “-not Ravus.”

A distinct scent fills his nostrils – iron and wool. There’s no time for a lengthy interrogation. Ignis sways in place, only remaining upright through sheer force of will.

“If not Ravus, then _who_!? _Who_ orchestrated this?”

“ _Please_ ,” Pink Bracelet whimpers once more. “It’s Marion. M’just one of his-his… cronies, y’know? You gotta let me go, she’s in real trouble-“

So many threads, so many questions. Lines and lines of dialogue to pick apart, yet Ignis’ mind stutters to a halt from the exertion, his wound spouting blood like a sickening spring.

He’s so very tired.

He can sense the shape of this man’s intentions, and they aren’t cruel. With a hitching gasp, he releases his hold on Fira and lets the letter opener clamor to the tile below, clutching at his opposite shoulder to try and plug the leak.

Ignis stumbles back a step, hunching forward as he digs the heel of his palm into the wound.

“You mentioned someone else is in danger?” he quietly presses, struggling to speak around the blood that coats his teeth.

The soldier, if he even _is_ a soldier, stills his trembling and straightens a bit, wiping at the wetness on his face with the back of a hand.

“Erm, yeah. My daughter. Leverage, you know, so I’d do the job.”

“The job…” Ignis echoes weakly. He’s on a precipice, wobbling precariously in the eye of a windstorm. Just one little push, and he’ll topple over into the void, never to be heard from again.

“Oh, fuck me, I can’t believe m’doing this – Rrrmyeah, just, sit down, I can help. Here-“

Pink Bracelet hastily pulls up the same damnable chair Ignis had previously fought to avoid sinking into, but there is nothing for it now. He collapses, nearly tipping over to the floor, his equilibrium thrown completely out of alignment.

“I don’t suppose you have a potion,” the advisor huffs out between labored breaths.

“Nah, but I can patch you up the old-fashioned way.”

The man carefully removes his bracelet before wrenching off his gauntlets and unclasping his breastplate, tossing the hunks of metal away. There’s the unpleasant rasp of hammered steel skittering across tile, and Ignis winces, hissing between his teeth.

“Don’t – look, you gotta keep your eyes open. I’m not haulin’ your ass outta here if you pass out.”

Ignis obeys, lifting his chin to watch as the man pauses to slip the bracelet back on his bared wrist. He lovingly caresses the cheap beads for a moment before pulling a medpack from his waist and slowly advancing on the advisor.

“Gotta get you outta this coat,” he murmurs, but halts when they’re only a foot apart, the lingering strain of apprehension in his motions. He’s leaned forward, like a field mouse considering the hunched form of a cat.

Ignis can’t help but offer a mirthless laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

“I’m afraid I’m entirely at your disposal,” he grits out. “Nothing to fear.”

“Right, right.”

Clumsy hands rush to undo the buttons of his uniform, pushing the heavy fabric aside to reveal an undershirt that was white once – now stained a shocking shade of scarlet. Pink Bracelet scowls sympathetically and gets to work.

There’s the piercing spray of some antiseptic, the chemicals stinging his open wound, burning him from within. Then, without warning, a needle is stuck into him again and again, piecing him back together, the steady bite of metal breaching flesh. It’s a truly miserable rhythm, this unforeseen act of mercy, a stranger sewing up his strength.

_Why?_

Ignis wants to know, tries to dig the mono-syllabic question from deep within his jaw, but he’s boneless, a trophy shot down in the wilderness. A beast to be dragged away, drawn up to a tree, skinned and quartered.

And yet – the man tending his wound is no hunter.

“I’m Paxton,” he supplies, unbidden, his axinite gaze still focused on the task at hand.

“Ignis,” the advisor replies, and his voice has split right down the middle from exhaustion.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…” Paxton trails off. He pulls the thread taut and bites it off with his teeth. Inelegant and earnest. He then shuffles through his pack and withdraws a small bottle, shakes a few capsules into his palm, and offers them up.

“Here, it’ll help keep you sharp between the ears.”

Ignis eyes the pills warily, but ultimately ascertains that this man wouldn’t waste his time patching him up were he only planning to poison him in the end.

“You’ve gotta chew ‘em,” Paxton instructs as the advisor pops the capsules into his mouth. He bites hard, the chalky pills dissolving on his tongue, and chews. They go down about as easily as a mouthful of sawdust, but something akin to adrenaline shoots through his depleted veins almost as soon as the substance hits his empty stomach.

It’s a bit of electricity, just enough synthetic energy to restore his faculties. Ignis blinks and blinks, taking in the strange man before him.

“What’d I tell ya? Th’stuff works miracles.”

The advisor doesn’t make a habit of raking up debts. He never borrows money or favors, is as self-sufficient as a person can be. But here, in an empty, refurbished office, sat on the stiffest, most uncomfortable chair he’s ever encountered, he owes his life to this sad excuse for a soldier. He can feel it, something hovering between graciousness and guilt, eroding through frigid ice to strike at his own wretched, sympathetic core.

“Ah,” he intones, still weak, still _alive_. He almost blurts, _‘Thank you for letting me live,’_ but that seems like an odd thing to say, despite the circumstance. “How might we save your daughter?”

 _We_. He should be halfway back to Insomnia by now, his phone to his ear, rattling off a report of events to Noctis. Instead, here he is, entangling his affairs with a stranger.

Paxton’s head droops at the question. He’s on his knees, still bent over on the floor from where he’d been tending Ignis’ wound. He looks pitiful and frail without the façade of armor.

“Not sure there’s a way,” he all but whispers. “Not now. This whole-“ he looks up and gestures vaguely to the sparse room, the still corpses. “It was all just to take a prisoner. _You_ , in this case. Rough you up a bit, send some grisly photos to th’king to piss him off.”

Ignis nods, and after a beat of silence, inclines his chin – a reticent bid for Paxton to continue.

“D’you know Marion?”

“No.”

“He’s the CEO of Arresta Inc. They’re the ones who make all the magitek… stuff.”

The advisor leans forward, threading his fingers together as he absorbs the information.

“What does he have against Noctis?”

“Aw, s’nothing _personal_ ,” Paxton quips. “Th’company’s just not very _profitable_ in peace-times.”

Ignis nods, lets the pieces click into place.

“He impersonated Ravus to incite a war with Lucii,” he muses aloud. “I see… in that case, he could sell weaponry to both kingdoms.”

“You’re not _‘Hand of the King’_ for nothin.’ That’s _exactly_ what he wants. And-and…” here Paxton breaks out into another, rather sudden wail. Ignis would think it dramatic were it not for the sincere tracks of fresh tears down his cheeks. “I fucked it all up. All ‘cause I couldn’t kill you off. My poor Cecilia-“

“Now, now, there is hope for your daughter yet,” Ignis interjects, hesitantly placing a placating hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. He feels untethered, like he’s had too many mugs of Ebony and too little sleep.

Paxton sniffs.

“How d’you figure?” he bites out, brittle and morose.

Ignis lets his gaze drift to the former marksman lying a few feet away. He nods toward the corpse.

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“Wh- _him_!?” Paxton spurts. “Noooo, those battery soldiers are all pricks.”

“Very good.”

The advisor troubles to his feet and shrugs off his ruined coat. He inelegantly kicks off his boots before moving to undo his slacks.

“Th’ _fuck_ is this? What’re you doing?”

Ignis pauses to glance up at the bewildered man and quirks a fine brow.

“Providing you with a body,” he supplies. “If you turn in the remains of the ‘King’s Hand,’ then surely you will have fulfilled your mission to Marion.”

Paxton looks lost, gaze flitting between the advisor and the felled soldier for a few drawn out moments before realization dawns.

“Oh. _Ooooh_. Yes! Brilliant idea.”

He feels ridiculous, stripped down to his blood-stained underclothes, but Ignis is far too drained to cling to any sense of modesty. He wrenches off the armor from the former soldier and hastily redresses him in the ruined King’s Glaive uniform. Then, with a nimble flourish, he summons Fira once more. A flame erupts in his open palm, dancing within the loose cage of his fingers like an oath.

“I should warn you,” he murmurs, “the smell is rather… well, unpleasant.”

 _“’Unpleasant,’”_ Paxton mocks, while unwittingly backing away a few paces. “Yeah, could’ve guessed as much.”

Ignis kneels to perform an unorthodox funeral rite of sorts, setting the body ablaze with a deft flick of his wrist. He bids the fire to burn until the man’s skin has shrunken in, turned dark and leathery as volcanic ash. Then, when there’s nothing left but charred flesh, the vague approximation of a face, he releases his hold on the magic. It always tingles as it departs his grasp, like mist drifting up and away after a rainstorm.

As a final act of deceit, Ignis unclasps the small skullhead pendant from about his neck and fastens it to the ruined collar of his decoy. It’s a strange and unsettling thing, he thinks, dressing one’s own corpse, his fingernails catching on flecks of burnt skin as he moves.

“That should do well enough,” he breathes as he slowly straightens. Paxton is cowered in the opposite corner, a hand over his nose and mouth, brown eyes wide with horror.

“Yeah,” he shakily agrees. “That’ll work.”

Ignis regards the curious man for a moment, and his gaze inevitably lands on the bright bracelet.

“Did your daughter make that for you?” he ventures, nodding to the flimsy piece of jewelry.

Paxton immediately lights up at the question and darts forward, holding out his wrist with pride, showing off the piece as though it were expertly crafted with the rarest jewels.

“She sure did! She’s such a sweetheart, really don’t know how I got so lucky.”

“How lovely,” the advisor intones. The weight of time settles over him, then. He imagines Noctis, pacing the floor, waiting, waiting…

“I should report to the king.”

He moves to retrieve his phone when Paxton stills him with an urgent grip on his forearm.

“Wait!”

The advisor glares between the hand on his arm and Paxton’s own watery eyes. The daft man picks up on the silent warning and backs away, palms out in surrender.

“Look, they’ll be listenin’ in. He’s got people tracking all the lines. You make that call now and this whole deal is _fucked_.”

Ignis’ lips flatten into a bitter frown as he stares down at the phone, considering. The thought of leaving Noctis in the dark, sick with worry, turns his own stomach. However – his peripheral vision catches on the pink and magenta beads hanging from the wrist of a man to whom he owes his life. He imagines a little girl, surrounded by corrupt, violent men, tearfully waiting for her father to save her.

He exhales, gripping the phone tight enough that it’s a wonder the screen doesn’t splinter from his vicious grasp.

“Alright.”

_Forgive me, my king._

Ignis separates the battery and screen, letting both parts clamor to the tile below. Staring balefully down at his own bare feet, he says, “Destroy those, won’t you?”

It takes a few seconds for Paxton’s wide-eyed gaze to register the command, but then he snaps into action, digging a heel into each piece until the phone is broken beyond repair.

The advisor takes one last cursory glance at the room. The scent of death hangs heavy in the stagnant air, the office ruined with bullet-holes and rent flesh.

“Should we clean up a bit? Perhaps we could make the alleged series of events seem more authentic.”

Paxton sputters out a laugh.

“Naaah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Those idiots aren’t doin’ the math.”

“Well then,” Ignis murmurs. “I should take my leave.” He turns to the other man and grasps his shoulder. “Thank you. You will always have a friend in Insomnia, should you ever need anything.”

“Yeah, s’nothing, but really, I should be thanking _you_. You could’ve just cut me down like those other poor bastards but – what the _hell_ are you doing?”

Midway through Paxton’s rambling, Ignis had crawled onto the furthermost desk, busying himself with pulling against the rusted window latch.

“This is the only viable exit,” he says, nonchalant. “It might blow my cover were I to just stroll out the front door.”

Paxton snorts.

“Y’know, you really are a bit of a smartass.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Once the window is pressed open, the advisor leans his head out, draws two fingers to his mouth, and issues a high-pitched whistle.

“Hey, whoa, don’t go makin’ a racket-“

“I’m calling my chocobo.”

“Y-you rode a _chocobo_ here? Really? Ever heard of cars? Great thing, cars, very convenient, not nearly as smelly-“

Ignis gives a long-suffering sigh and turns to stare down at Paxton, who seems thoroughly distressed.

“A proper mount allows for more covert maneuvers. I can quietly approach from any angle. Cars are terribly restrictive in that respect – ah, there she is.”

True to form, he spots Dusk barreling toward the building, her neck bent forward, eager to reach him. He turns to his unlikely friend one last time and inclines his head.

“Take care, Paxton.”

The man nods back at him with a toothy grin.

“Yeah, yeah, safe travels an’ all that.”

Dipping into the dwindling supply of his strength, Ignis hefts himself up and slips through the window feet-first. Dusk trills in confusion at his disheveled appearance when he deftly lands beside her, her feathered head bobbing up and down with disdain.

“No judgement,” he chastises before hoisting himself into the saddle. He kicks his heels against her belly and they shoot off to the cover of wheatgrass. Ignis leans into the splitting air, frowning as he thinks of Noctis, hoping the king will hold out for him just a little longer. A twisting pang of guilt writhes in his chest as they angle back toward the city. It has been well over an hour. He had promised…

Ignis shakes his head, as though the action could rid his mind of such self-deprecating thoughts. There is nothing for it now.

“Come on,” he whispers into Dusk’s crest, “Show me how fast you can go.”

There’s a croon of acknowledgement before the fowl hitches up and strikes forward at a truly remarkable pace, her talons upending clots of dirt from the force of each powerful stride. As he rides, drawing closer to the Altissian skyline, dark clouds begin to roll in from the East, blotting out the sun, leering over them with the promise of rain. Ignis looks up to the growing storm, raising his chin in challenge.

He won’t slow his pace, not for rain, not for lightning. Ramuh himself could descend upon him with the wrath of a maelstrom, and Ignis would _still_ press forward, closing the distance between him and Noctis, fueled only by cool determination and the ever-present need to stand at his king’s side.

_Wait for me. I’m coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long. I'm really looking forward to finishing the next one, so that should be up very soon. Thank you for reading!


	5. Immortal

_He’s fifteen, timid and uncertain of his future, but his angled shoulders still lift with youthful optimism. He trots out to the sparring range after class, leaning into the prickly ivy of the garden wall, watching Cor the Immortal as he strikes at a decoy, spreading straw and sawdust with the ungiving edge of his blade._

_Noctis doesn’t think he has ever seen the man smile. His stern countenance is always set in a frown, his severe gaze reminiscent of a half-starved falcon. He carries blood under his nails, walks with the stiff-shouldered gait of a proven predator._

_The sun is blinding white in its radiance, glinting off the general’s armor with such intensity that he has to squint in defense, skinny arms crossed against the delicate cage of his ribs as he observes._

_Cor is cut from stone, solid and imposing, but his motions are fluid as the wind. He dances with the hilt in his palm, twirling and bearing down on his target in elegant, deadly arches. Noctis can_ hear _the power behind his strikes, the sharp, near-imperceptible whine of folded steel slicing the air, the blunt, devastating_ thud _of his target breaking beneath the precise assault. Mesmerizing. Noctis wants to emulate him, wants to wield that self-same power._

_“How did you get so good at that?” he finally calls over, during a pause in the onslaught, when Cor has straightened to wipe the sheen of sweat from his furrowed brow with the back of a hand._

_The general angles toward him and nods in greeting, but his lips don’t so much as twitch; there’s not even the suggestion of a grin. Always somber, always bearing down with unshakable focus._

_“Practice,” he grunts. Simple, unsatisfactory._

_“You lead the Crownsguard,” Noctis presses, pushing up from the concrete bricks, picking his way over to the mysterious man._

_“I do.”_

_There’s that uncertainty again, the breadth of his shortcomings weighed against the expectations that loom over him like the sweep of a storm._

_“Yeah, but – how d’you do it? All those soldiers, just, ready to follow your command, no matter what.”_

_Something crossed between bemusement and agony passes over Cor’s countenance, then. This odd, twisted expression. Experiences playing out behind his verdant gaze, painful memories, victories wrenched on the pretext of desperation alone._

_“You’re still young,” he grits out, after a time. “You’ll learn.”_

_Noctis kicks at the tamped earth. His bones press up against his skin, a constant reminder of his fragility. He can’t picture it, can’t imagine himself darting, confident, into the heart of a battle, flanked by his subjects. He’s too weak, knows nothing of swordplay or bloodshed. An unwritten page, the dwindling pretense of potential._

_“So…” his eyes are between his boots, unwilling to maintain the general’s severe gaze. “No tips, then?”_

_Cor lets loose a long-suffering sigh and turns away, looking out toward the jagged cityscape._

_“You have to be willing to give everything,” he bites out. “And you have to know how to temper your soldiers’ expectations. You don’t ever give them the full story. They have to stay in a neutral headspace, or it all falls apart.”_

_Noctis lifts his gaze, curious. It’s the most he’s ever heard the man speak. He clings to the measured words like a lifeline, squirrels them away for further review._

_“You get good news, bad news, you keep that to yourself,” Cor continues. “Too much despair will destroy them, too much hope and they’ll go running around like they’re…” he trails off._

_“Immortal,” Noctis breathes, finishing the sentence. The marshal snaps around to glare at him, then exhales around that ever-present frown._

_“Yeah. That’s it.”_

_The prince struggles to maintain eye-contact, feeling as though he’s squaring off against an impossible opponent. He forgets to breathe, feels the stagnant air burn in his lungs. Then, when the tension is too thick, when he thinks he might surrender and flee to the comfort of the castle, Cor’s gaze on him softens, to the extent that his shovelcut jaw_ can _soften, and he lightly pats Noctis’ shoulder. There’s that contrast again, thick, calloused fingers against his own bird-boned frame._

_“When you can do nothing else, you fight,” he rumbles, and the prince feels time spin out, feels the weight of each syllable overshadowing his future. “That’s really all there is.”_

+++

He bears many titles. The king of Lucis, of sunrise, of storms. Newborn children have taken his namesake since his ascension - the one who returned light to the world, the savior of Eos. A lauded warrior, cast in stone, depicted in portraiture, revered by his people.

He is the king of other things. Of loss. Of rage.

Noctis paces the broad length of his common room, shoulders drawn forward, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. His dark pinstripe dress shirt is untucked from his slacks, wrinkled from hours of worrying at its hem with trembling fingertips.

Three hours. It has been three hours since he last heard from his advisor.

His phone sits on the cherrywood center table, defiant in its silence, the lifeless black screen casting back his own miserable, muted reflection every time he passes. Gladio is sat upon the nearby couch, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed between his feet. His ravenfeather hair is fluffed up from absently raking through his own locks, disheveled and pieced apart. Prompto is not much better off, anxiously flitting about the space, his fitful hands wiping down the already immaculate marble countertops and fixing yet another pot of ebony, even though the last batch went untouched.

They don’t speak. The Shield will occasionally grumble curses under his breath, but there’s no conversation between them. What would they say? They could offer futile encouragements to each other, could reason that Ignis is simply engaged in some diplomatic debate, but they all know better on an instinctual level. It’s stitched into their DNA, this dread.

So what good is idle pratter? Just empty words. Empty like the pit of his stomach, like the hollow in his chest.

Noctis is a fraying, patchwork quilt, his splintered parts threaded together by dissolving seams. Every man has a limit. He lost his mother, his father, his fiancé. Countless others, friends and staff, familiar faces he used to glimpse daily as a child that disappeared after a decade of darkness. The world keeps taking of him, scooping out pieces of his very core, taking and taking until he’s nothing but a hollowed-out shade. See his sketched edges, the impressionist painting of what might be a man. There’s not much left to give, not much left to lose.

Ignis has always been his one steadfast foundation, the unwavering pillar of loyalty, the one he could look to when everything else seemed beyond the threshold of his faith. Now the advisor seems far away in his silence. Unreachable.

There’s an old clock on the wall, an overlarge, elegant piece with curling iron branches that twine in toward the leaden face. It marks the passing moments, echoing out in the reticent chamber, pushing Noctis further toward the void with each damning _tick_.

Drops in a gauntlet. Every cup can only hold so much before it overflows.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Noctis spins on his booted heel, marching off again in the opposite direction. He’s hissing between his teeth now, eyes darting between his phone and the floor, waiting, waiting.

_Tick, tick, tick._

He commanded the gods. Twisted fate, rearranged his destiny. He knows men pile into bars, singing his praises on whiskey-thick tongues. Exaggerated claims in articles, his prowess as a king compared to that of a veritable deity. He can hold his own in a fight, sure, even with a fading knee, even without the Armiger. Could strike down an entire battalion armed with nothing but his sword and his unwavering will. And yet, he’s _here_. Safe in his plush, well-guarded castle, useless and bereft.

With nothing to push back against, the restless energy bubbles up from within, setting his skin ablaze, infusing his very marrow with the urge to strike out at _something_.

The king squares his shoulders and strays from his back-and-forth path, straight toward the phone.

“I’m going to call him.”

Gladio, for the first time in hours, jumps to his feet.

“ _Wait_ ,” he growls, “what if he’s in the middle of some important negotiation, huh?”

Noctis rounds on him, bent forward like a wounded griffon, ready to lash out.

“He would have let me _know_.”

This is when Prompto drops his restless hands and sprints to stand between them. Always a buffer for their anger, always the negotiator cursed with too-few resources. His broomstick arms fly out, fingertips brushing each of their heaving chests, his freckled face shadowed with concern.

“Hey, whoa, let’s just calm down-“

“ _Don’t_ tell me to calm down,” Noctis snaps, bitter. “Ignis knew how worried I’d be. He wouldn’t leave me on the hook like this. Not on purpose.”

There’s that heavy silence again, descending upon them like a cold rush of water. They can’t refute his claim. They know, too.

The minutes drag on.

_Tick, tick, tick._

A standstill. The king and his Shield, separated only by Prompto’s slight frame. Axinite and cobalt locked in challenge over a sharp, unsure shoulder.

The tension is broken by his phone buzzing to life. It’s not a call, but a text notification, sending the device vibrating a few inches up the tabletop. Noctis forgets all else and lunges to unlock the screen with a trembling fingertip, failing the security pattern twice before he fumbles to pull up his messages. Gladiolus and Prompto are pushing at his back, leering over his shoulders to see for themselves, eyes wide and starved for information.

He doesn’t recognize the number. The text simply reads:  
 ** _You took something from me, so I took something from you._**

Noctis inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, brows cinching together over his frantic gaze. There’s a millisecond of comprehension, and none of them are breathing, all drawn still as men at a guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop. Noctis has felt this sensation before, this knowing apprehension, when he asked about his father, and about Luna, already sure of their fates, but needing the confirmation. _Before_ , when he barreled down a hallway to glimpse the fading form of Ignis, thoroughly spent from wearing the ring, near-motionless and burned through with divine fury, his once flawless skin cracked open in slashes of sickening grey scars. It’s the sensation of realizing your greatest fears and still clinging to a spiderthread of hope, despite the assured knowledge that it’s all in vain.

His lips part in question, a scream on his tongue, when a picture is sent to punctuate the ominous message.

At first glance, it’s just an oilslick, just a vague silhouette of a man. The king squints, enlarges the photo to parse out the details. He can’t comprehend the full picture; he has to piece it together in parts, like some macabre puzzle. A singed King’s Glaive uniform. A pair of ashen, ruined boots. Leathery skin, black as ink. The gaping, anguished hole of a mouth, lips burnt away completely. And there, clasped about the shrunken-in hollow of a neck – the unmistakable glint of a skullhead pendant, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know what to look for.

Noctis _breaks_.

He hurtles the phone against the wall, delighting in how the screen splinters as it bounces off and collides with the slate tile below. He drops to his knees; pain shoots through his brace, ricocheting from his kneecap outward, but he doesn’t care. He pulls at his hair, gulping down air, thoroughly unable to steady his breath. Prompto quavers something around a sob, Gladio has plucked up the wreck of his phone and is wailing in his gravelly voice, but Noctis doesn’t understand them, can’t find the shape of their words through the fog of his own fractured mind.

 _I handed him the reins_ , he thinks, pulling at night-ocean locks until his scalp stings in protest. _I let him go._

He sees Ignis in the kitchen of his high school apartment, skilled hands covered with floral oven mitts, pulling his newest batch of pastries from the oven, a secretive smirk set upon his lips. He sees Ignis in the throne room after his coronation, standing tall and resolute as a mountain peak, his watery eyes shining in the open light as he speaks _“Your Majesty”_ for the first time. He sees Ignis’ outstretched hand, asking that he “have some faith” in him, sees the scarred edges of his eye before pulling him forward, forcing them together. And there, too, in the stable, he sees Ignis’ reassuring smile as he reluctantly hands him Dusk’s reins.

_“Remember your promise.”_

_“I shall see you soon, Your Majesty.”_

He had wanted to tell him, then, had looked up at his advisor, his dearest friend, a beautiful man with a beautiful mind, and he’d wanted to tell him. _I love you_. That’s all, three damnable words forced out from between the clench of his secretive teeth.

Cor’s steady voice had echoed in his mind, stilling his wretched tongue:

_“Too much hope and they’ll go running around like they’re…”_

Immortal.

He tilts his head back and _laughs_ , mirthless and delirious, like a mournful crow.

Gladio is shouting at him. Prompto is pulling at his shoulders, trying to drag him up to his feet. It doesn’t matter. Noctis’ hands itch for the cool press of the Engine Blade. He can feel latent magic trickle through his veins, suffusing every cell with a cool brand of fury. He imagines plunging the sword into Ravus’ gut, watching as sanguine spreads across the wedding-white threads of his coat. The fantasy brings a featherlight brush of peace, stills the storm within until his faculties bleed back into focus.

The last piece of him has been plucked out.

He looks between his Shield and his marksman. Tears track unashamedly down their cheeks, but Noctis has nothing left to give. Nothing of saltwater in him, nothing but this silent grief. It has a jagged edge, carries the sharp tang of cruelty. The thirst for retribution skitters across his skin, endowing him with renewed purpose.

He watches with detached intrigue as Gladio gestures to the phone clenched in his opposite hand.

“Ravus wants war,” he murmurs in a voice that has been raked across the coals. Prompto offers nothing, is turned away, weeping into his palm.

The king slowly moves to stand. Lightning strikes outside as he rises, breaking the muted sunset. He glimpses the tree limbs out his window, whipping against the fevered air, bending beneath the force of too much wind.

War, when viewed objectively, is a terrible, needless thing. Throngs of innocent people clashing together, stealing each other’s life-force, mindlessly clawing and biting for victory like rabid animals under the guise of some righteous purpose. Noctis had always loathed the concept, had vowed since he first pulled on the king’s mantle that he would never subject his people to such a horrendous fate.

Now though, with the second-hand taste of ash in his mouth and the serrated twist of vengeance in his gut, there’s a shift in his ideology.

“If that’s what he wants,” Noctis says. He’s surprised at the calm cadence of his own voice, the resolute timbre pushing out from his own oxygen-starved lungs. “I’ll cut him down. Whatever it takes.”

This isn’t how a king should act. He shouldn’t sweep in like a reaper and dispose of everyone who stands in his way. His father, were he alive, would frown from beneath his greyed moustache, would chastise him for glancing over the well-being of his people.

He doesn’t care. This is too personal, cuts too close to the withered chambers of his heart.

Noctis expects a token resistance, expects Gladiolus or maybe even Prompto to talk him down from this precipice of rage. However, when he peers up at them from beneath the fringe of his unruly hair, he sees nothing but his own fury, reflected, in their steadfast gazes.

They’re angry, too.

The Shield draws a fist to his chest, and then Prompto mirrors the action, blinking away a fresh wave of tears as he silently pledges fealty to his king. Understanding thrums between them, and Noctis can only nod wordlessly to each of them in kind.

It’s a heady realization; they’ll follow him, across the country, across the ocean. They’ll stand by him, this fallen king of sunrise, and the three of them will lead an army of their peers into battle, will sow destruction with each sweep of a blade and every trajectory of a bullet. Thousands of lives for the sake of one; an unfair statistic, the weight of which they will willingly bear.

It’s a fickle thing, war. The mighty lead the weak to slaughter and the cycle repeats and repeats.

“We’ll meet with the council in the morning,” Noctis commands. “Rally the soldiers, spread the word for anyone else who’d be willing to join us.”

“You’ve got it,” Gladio chokes out.

“Yeah,” Prompto wavers. “I’ll try to recruit as many as I can.”

They leave him, full of their own brutal intent, to carry out his orders. Their absence makes the room feel larger, each beat of thunder sounding louder than should be natural in the emptied-out space. He’s a shadow in his own home; all of the light has been ripped from him with one image, one that will remain seared on the backs of his eyelids until he finally gives himself over to the Six.

Noctis pads over to the nearest window, watching as fat raindrops slam against the ancient glass pane. Dark skies and dark intentions coalesce into one madcap peal of unfiltered ferocity, and he feels reformed from the brunt of it all, this broken sort of rebirth.

_“When you can do nothing else-“_

His Engine Blade rests lazily in a far corner near the main entrance, calling out to him. Noctis crosses the room and draws up the familiar sword, curling his fingers about the hilt, catching his own reflection in the well-worn steel. He collects his whetstone and sits, priming the time-proven weapon, relishing in the _shick-shick-shick_ of metal sharpening into a mortal edge.

_“-you fight.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	6. Splintered Shield, a Voice in the Storm

_When do I get to rest?_

_…_

_What is the balance on my debt of blood?  
  
_

+++

  
Petrichor fills his nostrils, twined with the heady scent of Dusk’s dusty feathers, as he peals off toward the Altissian docks. The wheatgrass parts for them as the fowl lurches forward, fulfilling her unspoken oath for speed. Golden stalks thwap against his forearms and calves, leaving behind little seeds that cling to his fevered skin. The air is heavy with the promise of rain, and Ignis leans into the wind as they barrel on, wishing he had the ring’s blessing to warp, so that he might fill the empty space between himself and Insomnia with a mere thought.

He knows Noctis must be pacing because Noctis always paces when he’s worried. The thought wraps icy fingers around his lungs and squeezes _hard_. It’s difficult to breath, pushing against the wind, with his depleted veins and half-formed thoughts. He feels dizzy, drunk, bare thighs chafing against the leather saddle, and he thinks there would be no sweeter reprieve than to curl into a bed and sleep for the next few days straight.

They reach the sparkling city right as the sky cracks open, unleashing a deluge upon them. Ignis urges Dusk forward, cutting through the scattered throngs of people as they all scramble for cover. The fowl chirps in question, pausing to shake the droplets from her crest and peer longingly at the shelter of a nearby gazebo. The advisor growls and kicks his heels a bit too harshly, and Dusk takes off again, something like fear igniting in the dark depths of her eyes.

The sky has darkened to a miserable warning of black clouds by the time he reaches the docks. There’s no sign of life; all seabirds and fisherman have long since sought refuge from the ungiving weather. A line of vacant boats rock side-to-side from the violent current, and there’s nothing in the air but salt and the damning noise of waves sloshing up against wooden planks. The sharp slant of rainfall cuts through Ignis’ skin, and he grits his teeth from the onslaught, sitting, lost, on Dusk’s quivering back, trying to scrape together his next step.

He’s scanning the row of vessels, half-tempted to steal one, when he catches movement from his peripheral vision. He turns and sees a lanky figure, fretting with the thick rope that anchors a very familiar, shoddy boat to shore.

“Hello there,” he calls, bidding Dusk to trot over. The young lad glances up, wide, fearful eyes beneath a fringe of dark hair plastered to his forehead.

“Uh, hey.”

“Where is the captain? Could I trouble you for a trip back?”

The boy squints at him, then throws his arms akimbo as if to say, _‘are you serious?’_

“What’s the hold up?” a gruff voice hollers from above. Then, without even waiting for an answer, the grey captain pokes his head out a window, and his hungover eyes light with recognition. He points a gnarled finger at the advisor.

“You’re the good tipper!”

“Ah, yes, I know this must sound absurd, however-“

“Why’re you out here in your skivvies?”

Ignis glances down at the blood-ruined wreck of his underclothes and scowls.

“It’s a rather long story-“

“Well come on up here, then.”

The lanky boy helps him up onto the dock, his calloused, bonethin fingers a welcomed weight as they worry against his shoulderblade, steadying him.

There’s a shallow overhanging just before they press inside, and so Ignis deftly ties Dusk’s lead to a rail. It’s a meager refuge from the rain, but it’s the best he can manage. She shakes the water from her feathers and shoots an accusatory glare at the advisor as he stumbles in to the captain’s sanctuary.

The cockpit is small and smells of mold and stale sweat. The entire space is swathed in yellow light from the only lamp, throwing dark shadows across the orange linoleum floor. Small, greasy windows curve around thin metal walls, with slapdash desks bolted about the perimeter. Every surface is cluttered with papers and charcoal sticks, rough-lined sketches stained with coffee-rings and dried splashes of liquor. Ignis’ gaze lingers on one such sketch, a man in a suit, but there is only a plume of fire where his head should be. The strange figure ignites the core of dread that always lingers in the pit of his stomach.

“You like it?” the captain questions.

“Yes. Did you draw these?”

“Sure did. More to me than meets the eye, eh?”

The advisor offers a weak, watery smile. His knees tremble from exertion, the edge of clarity waning thin.

“Mateo!” the captain yells. Too loud, his voice grating even over the clamor of rainfall. “Get this man some clothes!”

The lanky boy quickly shuffles over to a hatch in the wall, kept shut by a loose clasp. He rummages around inside and retrieves a pair of thick, brown cargo pants, an overlarge blue flannel shirt, and a pair of rubber boots.

Under normal circumstances, Ignis might have offered a polite, token resistance. Yet – he feels as though he has been dipped in a frozen lake, every inch of skin clammy and chilled to the point that he can scarcely feel his extremities. He accepts the clothing with an earnest “Thank you” and carefully pulls the ensemble on, wincing as the coarse fabric shifts against his raindamp flesh.

“Have a seat, you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Mateo, make a pot of coffee, will you?”

While the boy fumbles with a tin of cheap coffee grounds, Ignis pours the wreck of himself into the nearest chair. The captain appraises him with a keen eye, one hand idly pulling at his beard as he considers the strange man before him.

“What’s your name, son?” he questions at length.

“Ignis.”

“Weird name,” the captain admits with an unaffected shrug. “I’m Jay.”

The advisor sinks further into the cold chairback and shudders miserably.

“Nice to meet you,” he manages, though he can feel his faculties slipping slowly away.

Mateo, with miraculous timing, gently pushes a warm styrofoam cup of burnt coffee into his lax palm. Ignis gulps it down, eager for the bite of caffeine.

Jay pulls a flask from his orange fisherman’s vest, eyes still trained on the advisor as he unscrews the cap and takes a few liberal drinks. He wipes at his brandy-stained beard with the back of a hand and leans forward. Intrigued.

“So, what happened, hm? Some _rendezvous_ with a girlfriend gone wrong?”

Ignis can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“Not quite,” he intones. “Let’s just say it was a _political meeting_ ‘gone wrong.’”

The captain purses his lips and quirks a thick eyebrow, no doubt wondering what sort of ‘political meeting’ would end with Ignis fleeing Altissia in naught but his underwear.

“I wanna work in politics someday,” Mateo eagerly interjects. “I’m studying for it.”

The advisor’s weary gaze drifts to the poor boy, his clothes soaked-through and clinging to his bony frame. He carries the hope of one who dredges through a simple job, every day, yet sees a brighter future on the other side.

“Well, I think that’s a very wise career choice.”

Mateo preens a bit under the affirmation, thin lips quirking in a grin.

Lightning strikes, then, splitting the horizon and returning urgency to Ignis’ veins. He always thinks of Noctis when a storm rears, sees the light of his dark eyes in the beauty and peril of electricity piercing the sky. He _must_ reach out to him somehow. He’d never, willingly, leave his king in the dark, not when he had pleaded on multiple occasions for frequent updates. Ignis had _given his word_ -

But he thinks of Paxton, of his poor daughter, remembers the gentle light of mercy in the man’s brown eyes. He wouldn’t jeopardize them now. And yet – he had dressed a corpse in his own clothes, had burnt the dead man, a facsimile of his own form, beyond recognition. He hopes the image hasn’t reached Noctis. He knows the breadth of what such an act could spark – he _knows_ Noctis. The king would mourn, surely, but his anger would overpower all else.

Ignis can taste danger in the air like the cool press of a dagger against his tongue.

“I need to get back to Insomnia right away,” he blurts, his wretched voice pitched beseechingly.

Jay scoffs out a laugh and raises both eyebrows.

“You won’t be gettin’ anywhere until this storm passes.”

“I know it’s risky, but surely we could make it back to the Quay. I will compensate you, of course-“ he rambles on. “-I could offer enough gil to purchase a new vessel.”

The captain’s restive fingers pause against his beard at the offer. His grey eyes dart to the water stains on the ceiling, to the poor welds in the walls that have rusted through. He peers out a window to consider the rails wobbling precariously against the onslaught of wind.

He takes another deep swig from his flask.

“Talk’s cheap,” he grits out. “Not many folks could actually deliver on a promise like that.”

Ignis dislikes flaunting his title. It goes against his very nature to make known the importance of his position and its close proximity to the crown. Still, he casts about his own weary mind for an alternative and comes back woefully emptyhanded.

“I’m the Hand of the King,” he supplies, straightening a bit in his chair. “It would be no trouble at all to provide such a reward, especially since you would be directly supporting the crown with your gracious assistance.”

“Wow,” Mateo breathes, reverent, “ _You’re_ Hand of the King? That’s… really cool.”

“Tch, yeah, and _I’m_ the sorcerer Ramuh,” Jay snaps. Ignis has to give credit where it’s due – this man is no gullible simpleton. “Still,” he drawls, tapping his too-long fingernails against decrepit wood, “that would explain the fancy uniform from the other day. And, I gotta tell ya, I don’t believe you for a second, but if there’s even the slightest chance you’re not shittin’ me, well… a new boat would sure be nice.”

Mateo fidgets at the captain’s words, wringing his long fingers together anxiously. His big, watery eyes dart between Ignis and the dirty windows, fear written all over his face. Sympathy and guilt twine together with the exhaustion in Ignis’ joints. He wishes he didn’t have to ask, that he didn’t have to rely on these innocent strangers for help.

Despite all else, he sees Noctis staring wistfully out his chamber window, sees him punching out message after message on his phone, pleading for a response. At the eye of the maelstrom is only ever the king, always Noctis, black-cloaked and heavy-hearted, drawing Ignis in like a foolish carp, uncaring of the metallic bite of a hook through his lip.

The advisor is broken from his fretful trance when Jay abruptly stands and hunches forward, offering his hand.

“Shake on it,” he says. “Gentleman’s agreement.”

Ignis’ lips part in surprise. After a beat of comprehension, he eagerly grasps the captain’s gnarled, outstretched hand, and gives a firm shake.

Jay barks out a wry laugh and declares, “Alright boys, best make good with your gods because this’ll be a bumpy ride.”

+++

Ignis grips the nearest table’s edge until his fingertips prick with errant splinters. The bow of the vessel shoots up before plummeting downward, tilting them from one end of the axis to the other extreme. The waves are wretched, crashing against the boat with unyielding force. Mateo refuses to sit; instead, he clings to an overhead rail and watches the brunt of the storm through the curved windows, worrying his bottom lip between uneven teeth. Jay seems unaffected at the helm, pushing forward on the steering column with one assured hand and taking meandering sips of brandy with the other.

Even over the roar of the ocean and the thunderous peals of lightning, Ignis is quietly searching his mind for a way to safely inform Noct of his survival. A direct phone call is out of the question; if the lines truly are tapped, such a brazen action would surely put Paxton’s life at stake, not to mention his young daughter. He hates this, this indebtedness, to these strangers, to the gods.

Realization dawns as he stares into the same sketch from before, the suited man with a riot of flame for a head. The paper curls beneath his clenched palm – the riddle of a faceless man, the truth embedded within a vague verse.

He knows what to do.

“Do either of you have a phone?” Ignis calls over the bellows of rainfall and thunder.

“Nah,” Jay quips over one shoulder, “s’more than I want to keep up with.”

“I have one,” Mateo quavers, breaking his gaze on the window for a brief moment to make sidelong eye-contact with the advisor. “You need to make a call?”

“Actually,” Ignis intones, “I was hoping you might make the call for me.”  
  


+++

++

+

Gladiolus is laid out on a bench, a weighted iron bar in his calloused grasp, muscles straining with the effort to go just one more cycle, just one more rep. His entire form aches, biceps twitching from the overexertion. Pain, deep and relentless, thrums through his body like a current, but the steady ache is a welcomed distraction from his own deeply buried grief.

He does this, sometimes, when the pang of loss is too much to bear. Some men turn to liquor, others turn to sex. Gladio harnesses the agony and rage by forcing his body to its limit, pushing steel until his mouth goes dry and his joints lock up.

The keystone of their group is gone, and the precarious arch has crumbled into rubble at their feet.

A sheen of sweat drenches his parched skin. He hasn’t stopped to drink in hours, fully intends to strain himself until he collapses into an exhausted, half-dead heap.

 _One more rep_ \- he silently coaches, teeth grit, as the bar trembles in his knuckle-white grip. He forces the weight up one final time, every corded muscle vibrating in protest, before allowing the bar to fall into its rack with an echoing _clang_. He heaves out desperate breathes, struggling to gulp down oxygen, before rising to perch at the edge, his face in his palms.

It’s too much this time, he thinks.

Gladio remembers their meeting the day prior (or has it been two days? He isn’t sure), and how he had lauded Ignis’ abilities, as though the man were infallible. It had been so easy to picture him, with his sharp wit and skilled hand, striding effortlessly into any situation and walking out unscathed.

“I’m such a fucking idiot-“ he grits aloud, to no one, both hands raking through unwashed raven locks.

There’s a moment of purgatory, a liminal space he carved out with his own trembling fingertips, where the physical world bleeds away and it’s just him – just him and the bench, and this white static encompassing the space. He feels like he’s floating away, like he might ascend right into the heart of the storm, let his flesh be rent by the splintered electricity – a willing sacrifice to Ramuh.

The damning silence is broken by the shrill ring of his phone. It’s sitting on a nearby table, screen alight with a number he doesn’t recognize. Dread settles low in his gut then, and when he reaches to answer the call, his hand is trembling with sick anticipation.

“Who is this?” he growls. His own tone is hoarse, wretched like a wounded animal.

 _“Write this down,”_ comes the quavering command of a young man. Gladiolus doesn’t recognize the voice, and the realization sends a flush of ice-water through his veins.

“Who the _fuck_ is this?!” He’s yelling now, on his feet, his free hand curled into a tight fist.

 _“Please,”_ the stranger pleads, _“Just… write this down.”_

The fear tinging the boy’s words settles some of the rage in Gladio’s chest. He huffs out an exhausted sigh and fumbles about for a pen and some old mail.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

_“Go to the bookshelf in his office. Third shelf down. There’s a green book toward the left. Page 23, the final line.”_

He scrawls out the cryptic commands in rough penmanship. Distantly, deliriously, he remembers how Ignis would chide him, how he would claim his writing is “scarcely legible.”

“Got it,” he croaks. “What now?”

The line goes dead. He stares down at his phone for a few long minutes before he redials the number. It goes straight to one of those pre-programmed voicemails. He considers leaving a message, then is stricken with the realization that he has nothing to say. Frustrated, confused, he shoves the phone into his pocket and collects his hastily written note.

“Go to the bookshelf in his office,” he murmurs aloud. It’s vague enough on the surface; the castle has more offices than Gladio has ever bothered to count. Despite this, he knows where to go. There’s only one office that has ever really mattered.

He pads down the long hallway, the clicks of his boots twining with the muted echoes of thunder. There are more guards stationed than normal, and they all nod at him as he passes. He’s a golem in the dark, his bulk upsetting the torpid air and making the others shift with unease. It’s almost as though they can feel it, the rage radiating from between his taut shoulders, the single-minded focus burning from behind his black eyes.

The study of the Hand of the King was purposefully arranged to sit close to the throne room. He can glimpse the artery-red cushion from where he lingers right outside his destination. His heart is a riot in his chest, thumping erratically, as he curls calloused fingers around the handle and pushes inside.

It feels wrong, like a trespass, like unsealing a tomb. This undisturbed space, all of Ignis’ things, the perfectly-arranged folders and neat, sleek clerical effects (a black stapler, a silver cup of fountain pens, a smattering of stamps in alphabetical order). The desk itself is polished cherrywood, heavy and immovable, ironically engraved with an egg-and-dart pattern along the outer edge.

_Life and death._

Gladiolus pauses in the doorway to take a steadying breath. There’s still the lingering ghost of vetiver in the stagnant air, a shade of Ignis’ preferred cologne. He sweeps the space with a weary gaze, takes in the stitched leather chairs and the drooping fiddle-leaf fig that slumps against the only window. And there, behind the desk, is a massive bookshelf that spans the entire length of the wall.

The shield gently shuts the door behind him and steps carefully toward the shelves, his footfalls light with trepidation, as though he were a thief skulking within a stranger’s home. He can smell pressed parchment, dust, and the pleasant tang of leather as he draws close. He raises a hand to drag his fingertips over the many leatherbound tomes, breathless and reverent.

After a moment, he refers back to the instructions penned on the back of last month’s phone bill.

“Third shelf down, green book on the left, ok, alright-“

Sure enough, it’s there, sticking out amongst the maroon and black and brown, this defiant emerald spine. It’s thinner than the others, all the tomes on foreign diplomacy and war-time strategy and mathematics, yet here’s this small, unassuming book stuck between them. He carefully plucks it out and inspects the cover. It reads “Sketches” in gold gilt letters, and the author is credited at the bottom: R. M. Drusus.

Tension hangs heavy in the air, and it tastes like blood in his mouth – this buried hope, this pleading drag of grief over every inch of his skin. He flips through the pages and registers right away that it’s a book of poetry.

“Page 23-“ he recites aloud, for no other reason than to break the unbearable silence. He reads each verse with the studious focus of a curator, looking for something to excavate, polish, and hoard away for further review:  
  


  
_You’re in  
a classroom, and it’s white  
everything’s white,  
the board, the walls, the cheap  
tile floors.  
Your teacher points to numbers, explains  
the shape of scientific concepts to your  
youthful, half-full mind  
“This is how the world works,” she says,  
and you trust her  
because you were told to trust her._

_You’re in  
an office, and it’s black  
everything’s sleek and black,  
the desks, the chairs, your own  
tailored suit.  
The recruiter shakes your hand, tells you  
how impressed he is  
with your carefully stacked resume.  
“You have a bright future here,” he says,  
and you believe him  
because you want to believe him._

_You’re in  
the back seat of a Suzuki, and it’s dark  
everything’s dark and touched by starlight  
His hair, his lips, the silver buttons  
on his half-undone shirt.  
He traces your collarbone with his tongue and whispers  
“I love you” in the crook  
of your neck. You say it back  
because you want it to be true  
and because it’s what  
he expects._

_You’re in  
a bus stop, and it’s raining  
everything’s damp and miserable,  
the air, the streets, the broken-down  
commuters ambling forward.  
You have an empty bank account and  
an empty home.  
You had to learn it the hard way,  
how to cut the strings, how to  
pluck the pieces  
out of their grasp. If you could turn  
the cruel dial of time and rendezvous  
with your younger, impressionable self  
you would give this advice, only this:  
  
“Question everything.”_

__  
  


For a moment, it looks as though the letters might jump off the page, and it’s only then that Gladio realizes his hand is trembling again, struggling to maintain his grip on the spine. His pupils blow wide with comprehension. The final line – question everything.

So he does.

He tucks the book into his vest and picks his way over to the window. Across the central garden, he sees the yellow light from the barracks, can glimpse the many silhouettes from within – training, taking stock, preparing for an invasion.

“What are we doing?” he wonders aloud, watches as the glass fogs up with his own humid breath. What basis did they have for going to war, really? Where was the proof? His mind spins as he recalls the letter that started it all, the vague text messages, the faceless husk of a man dressed in Ignis’ clothes.

And here, at the crux of it all, a sign. A supplication.

_Question everything._

He bolts from the office and barrels toward Noctis’ chamber, ignoring the bewildered stationed guards that attempt to question him as he passes. He makes it in no time at all, panting as he leans against the elaborate curling stonework. He tries the handle, growls to find it bolted shut, and takes to beating against the heavy door with his fist.

“It’s me, Noct, hurry up.”

There’s a put-upon sigh from within, then the sound of annoyed shuffling, before the door finally clicks open. Noctis has aged years in the span of only a couple of days. Dark bags hang beneath his tired eyes, his sallow skin is drawn taught over knifesharp cheekbones. Gladio pushes him back by his shoulders and kicks the door shut with his heel.

“I think Ignis is alive,” he blurts, always so direct, never bothering to dress up his words with subtlety or flowery language. He expects the king to light up with hopeful intrigue, expects the reluctant twitch of a smile.

Instead, Noctis’ frown only deepens. He steps away and bows his head to massage his temple with strawthin fingers.

“What are you talking about.”

“I got a call from an unknown number. Some kid told me to go to his study, and get this book-“ here he fishes said book from his vest and waves it in the air for emphasis. “He said, page 23, the last line; here, look.” He jabs at the final verse with an air of victory.

“Question everything,” the king deadpans. He looks up from the page and fixes his shield with a pinched expression. “They’re just messing with us.”

Gladiolus stiffens at the blatant dismissal. He bares his teeth like a rabid animal. Anger bubbles up to a dangerous boil as he clutches the book so hard that the leather creaks in protest.

“How would they know, huh? Who else would know about that book but Ignis!?”

Noctis shrugs with one shoulder.

“Dunno. They could have an informant on the inside. Either way, I’m done playing their games.”

“So that’s it?” Gladio growls. “You’re going to lead us right into war based on nothing but assumptions?” He scoffs, barks out a mirthless laugh. “Some king.”

 _This_ snaps Noctis from his apparent apathy. The next few moments are more like flashes, frames in a flipbook. He’s standing flat on his feet and in the next second he’s slammed against the nearest wall, Noctis’s fingers twisted in his lapels, the air electrified by the reawakening of latent magic. It’s still a surprise, even to this day, that the mild-mannered, sleep-addled king, with his small stature and proclivity for sweets, possesses so much power beneath the surface.

“Don’t you think this is hard enough!?” There’s venom in Noctis’ tone. Anyone else would be terrified. Gladio, on the contrary, only feels a sharp frustration.

“Look,” he reigns in his own anger, tries to level the desperate pitch of his tone, “I know this all sounds crazy. But Ignis has taken down much worse than whatever was waiting for him in Altissia. What if he couldn’t call you directly? What if this was the only way he could reach us?”

Noctis sags, his gaze dropping between their feet. He releases his death-grip on Gladiolus’ coat and steps away, dark fringe shielding his eyes.

“Even if it’s all bullshit,” Gladio presses on, “we can’t go to war without more information.”

The king looks small again, like he had so many years ago, when they set off across the continent chasing the Altissian skyline. He’s unbalanced, Gladio knows, without Ignis to keep him steady, keep him on the right path. The shield silently muses that he is a sorry substitute, but he’s going to try. He _has_ to try.

“I want to believe you,” Noctis all but whispers, his gaze still fixed on the slate tile below, “but it just seemed like a matter of time, you know? Everyone I’ve ever-“

He stops, suddenly, seems to correct himself. He shakes his head and clears his throat, then lifts his chin to meet Gladiolus’ own beseeching gaze.

“We _should_ get more information. You’re right. I don’t want anyone else to die on my account unless there’s no other choice. We’ll hold off for a while longer.”

And there it is, the concession, two hot-headed forces finding a compromise in the end. They’ve grown together, Gladio realizes, have learned to step down, to reconsider. He exhales slowly through his teeth. It’s so much, the lack of sleep, the long hours that stretch between the past when their group was _whole_ and the unfathomable present. With a slanted grin, he steps forward and clasps Noctis’ shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says earnestly. “We’ll get through this. Somehow.”

The king nods, but his eyes are still hollow with misery.

“Yeah. If you say so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for this update. I've already started on the next chapter - it's the one I've been looking forward to writing the most. Thanks again for reading, you guys are the best! <3


	7. Evocation

_His memory has always been sharper than most, especially where Noctis is concerned. Every wayward glance the prince casts, every passing hum of assent, every soft-spoken comment; Ignis catalogues his charge’s likes and dislikes like a greedy curator, hoarding the subtle tells until he can chip away and find the soft underbelly of truth. The advisor is not always a steadfast pillar of stone. There are cracks in the armor, faultlines, dark little rivulets that speak of his hidden heart. It’s not always the starched collars, the rigid poise, the flawless manners._

_Sometimes he thinks he even feels more deeply than most, even moreso than the laymen and women who drift around him each day, speaking so easily, so freely, their tongues perfect vassals for their thoughts. He envies them at times, his chest aching with ennui. But a servant to the Crown should not have a loose tongue or a soft heart, and Ignis never does anything in half-measures._

_That’s the trouble though, really. When he trains, he trains until his body becomes a finely-tuned weapon, becomes one with the folded steel in his palms. When he cooks, he cooks with the eye of a masterful chef, measuring the ingredients with cunning exactitude, adding just enough spice to draw out the complexity of a dish without overwhelming one’s palate._

_And when he loves… he loves with every stitch of his being. It bleeds into every thought, every action, every inhalation. It courses his veins like poison, everpresent, always glittering around the edges of his consciousness. Never a half-formed thing, never anything manageable, and yet he somehow wrestles it down anyway, depriving himself like a Fulgarian monk, plastering on the stern countenance of a poised advisor. A poorly formed mask. You could glimpse him under the flimsy facade if you really looked._

_They’re young. Still bright-faced and hopeful, and it’s so dark outside, so late in the night that the sky is naught but a black void through the long windowpanes of Noct’s apartment. There is flour under his manicured nails and the air is sweet with the tang of freshly chopped strawberries. Months ago, during one of his forays into attempting to recreate the recipe his prince remembered so fondly from Altissia, he had stuffed the pastries with strawberries because he knew those were Noct’s favorite. And the prince had, once again, informed him that it was a different recipe, not quite right, but the corner of his lips had twitched as he chewed and he had then quietly admitted that he liked Ignis’ iteration as much if not more._

_Ignis remembered, of_ course _he did, locked the moment away for further review, carefully catalogued with every other second he’d spent in Noct’s presence, each one precious in its own way._

_So when the prince had struggled during his training that morning, and when he had received poor marks on his exams at school, and when seemingly everyone else in his life had turned against him, Ignis had quietly snuck to his apartment to begin the long process of baking. He’s moving about the familiar space with purpose, and they’re having one of their silences. It’s an odd quirk of Noct’s, this pointed lack of conversation, where Ignis is shuffling about the kitchen humming absently and the prince is staring at him. An open gaze, his expression slack and unreadable, those beloved night-ocean eyes tracking his advisor’s every movement like a watchful hawk._

_Ignis doesn’t mind, has never minded. He always bends to the prince’s whims and doesn’t comment on the trying day or on Noct’s unwavering gaze. For as much as he likes to spout facts and voice his thoughts aloud, he knows now, on an instinctual level, when to hold his tongue. He_ does _wonder, however. Wonders what Noctis sees when he looks at him. It’s a fretful pit to delve into, the question of_ ‘What am I to you? A nagging servant? Just a bookish shadow, always trailing at your heels?’

_He chases the thought away with a subtle shake of his head and tries to instead focus on the task at hand. Bits of strawberry are folded into soft, thick circles of dough. He sprinkles an extra layer of powdered sugar over the raw pastries, wanting from the depths of his very core to spoil the prince just a little. Indulge him, lift his spirits. Ignis slips on a floral oven mitt and slides the pan into the oven, relishing the little burst of heat, before shutting the door and setting a timer. Noctis watches his loose, easy motions, and says nothing._

_Ignis plucks up a mug and sips at the dregs of lukewarm Ebony, politely avoiding the prince’s gaze. He’s so content, so at peace simply being in Noct’s presence, that he startles a bit when the prince_ does _speak, a few droplets of coffee spilling to the floor at the jerky rise of his shoulders._

_“Why are you here?”_

_The advisor finally snaps his eyes up to meet Noct’s, and the absent grin he’d been wearing slips into a somber line._

_“What do you mean?” he questions, his voice soft and hesitant._

_The prince gestures loosely to him, then the stove._

_“You worked all day, and it’s late. You’d usually be asleep right now. Why come up here and cook for me? That’s not part of your ‘royal duties,’ or whatever.”_

_Ignis’ frown deepens. He carefully places his mug on the counter and straightens, his formerly relaxed posture evaporating like steam. It feels like a test, like some ancient riddle. There’s a wrong answer here, he knows, so he takes a few moments to gather his thoughts before he speaks._

_In the end, though, pinned as he by Noct’s beseeching gaze, he can only blurt the truth._

_“I don’t do these things because I feel it is my responsibility. Noct,” he falters, taking a tentative step forward, as though the prince might dart away like a frightened hare, “I just want to see to your happiness, and to be frank, I enjoy your company.”_

_Whatever maudlin spell had plagued the space finally lifts, and Noctis’ lip quirks in a mischievous grin._

_“So your name’s ‘Frank’ now? Kind of weird, but you do you.”_

_It takes a moment for the truly horrendous joke to register, and when it does Ignis lets his head fall back with a theatrical groan._

_“That was terrible. Possibly the worst attempt at humor I’ve ever heard.”_

_The prince chuckles, looking pleased with himself, and Ignis’ traitorous mouth curls into a smile of its own. He has known he loves Noctis for a long time now, but in the moment, he registers the sheer extent of the suffocating weight in his chest. It should be sobering, the realization that he would give up_ anything _for Noctis’ sake, but instead he feels deeply settled – an errant puzzle piece clicking into place. It’s carved into him, embedded as deeply as his own DNA, a seal stamped over the useless hollow of his ribcage._

_It’s retribution in surrender._

_A half-hour later, Ignis watches the prince’s eyelashes flutter shut in bliss as he sinks teeth into the soft confection, still warm from the oven. It was the best pastry of the dozen, perfectly formed, with a crisp shell and a lingering, doughy give to it that promised of sweetness, so of course he had selected it for Noctis. He won’t voice his secret aloud, will never have such a luxury, but he can do this – he can pepper the prince’s strained schedule with these pilfered moments of peace. He can be the foundation of Noctis’ future, sturdy and dependable, where others would surely break under such an impossible burden.  
  
Ignis can be strong enough for both of them, because this is where he belongs, he reasons. This is his purpose. _

+++

They pull to dock. Against all odds, in direct defiance to the lightning god himself, out there in a rust-addled boat with a creaking hull, tipping forward and back again against the frontlines of waves, they _do_ pull to dock. Mateo trips over his own feet as he hurries outside to tie them off, while Jay grins all the while, wearing the self-satisfied smirk of one who enjoys shattering the expectations of others. Ignis troubles to his feet, still raw and exhausted, and bends to shake the captain’s hand once more.

“I will return in no less than a week with your payment. I cannot thank you enough.”

Jay grunts and waves him away.

“We’ll see. Take care out there.”

The advisor nods. He collects Dusk before stepping onto the rainsoaked planks, and the fowl darts forward and gambols about, overjoyed to be back on solid ground. Mateo is pulling the final knot in the thick rope when Ignis approaches him with a tired, but no less genuine, smile.

“Thank you, Mateo. If you ever need a good reference for your political pursuits, you have a friend in Insomnia.”

The boy straightens hurriedly and fidgets with his shirtsleeves, bashful and brimming with subdued pride.

“Uh, thanks, I really appreciate it.”

His voice is thin and dismissive, but Ignis can make out the lightest flush dusting his cheeks. And there, in his downturned eyes, the glint of hope.

Ignis nods and faces the horizon, eyeing the line of trees just beyond the perimeter of Galdin Quay. It takes a herculean effort to hoist himself up on Dusk’s back and ride through the bustling coastal town, ignoring the inviting warmth of the Quayside Cradle. He passes the promise of a soft bed with an upturned nose, even as his entire body aches for rest.

A few wayward heads turn to watch him as he passes through the central plaza, a beaten-down man in overlarge clothes, far removed from his typical sharp poise. He slouches in the saddle, has to struggle to keep himself from slipping right over. It’s a maddening dance, this fight for cognition, and Dusk seems to sense his waning faculties on some instinctual level. She pauses to turn her head and gently nibbles his arm, trilling in question.

“I’m alright, sweet girl,” he manages around a weak smile. He strokes up and down her neck with the flat of his palm until she stills, a contented noise vibrating from her core.

“Let’s go home, shall we?”

+++

The sun climbs to its peak in the sky and begins the slow descent downward, and still, he rides. Through the forests with their outstretched limbs like skeleton hands, through the barren plains with herds of ashenhorn idling about, languidly grazing, he rides. Ignis’ mind is fuzzy from lack of sleep, and his thick flannel shirt clings uncomfortably to sweatdamp skin. The clarity and pain relief afforded by whatever drug Paxton had given him has long since faded, and so the ache in his shoulder returns with a vengeance, throbbing in time with each frantic heartbeat.

Dusk herself is tireless in her trajectory, seemingly fueled by Ignis’ own desperation to return to the crown city. He can’t help but admire her resilience, even through the unrelenting haze of exhaustion.

Twilight descends, shepherding forth a sharp drop in temperature. The advisor’s leather-stung hands are coarse and creaky from the sudden chill, and he shivers miserably in the saddle. Still, he can see the edges of a framework – the lines of telephone poles, the nearby roar of the highway, unruly fields trimmed down to something manageable, the fringes of civilization carved out from the untamed wilderness. They’re getting close.

Just a little further, and he can assuage Noctis’ doubts, his lingering fears. The thought bolsters his hope, infuses his veins with a little adrenaline, just a small jolt of energy. He lightly kicks Dusk’s belly and she leaps forward, darting impossibly faster with long, heaving strides. The wind whips at his saltrough hair and burns his weary eyes, but his gaze remains steadfast, trained forward, waiting for the first dark spire of Insomnia to break the horizon.

Despite his renewed determination, Ignis knows the danger in travelling so far from the city center this late in the day, out in a cut-down clearing, exposed and obvious as a beacon. The creeping darkness draws every manner of beast from the shadows. Ignis can feel their reflective gazes, can imagine saliva dripping from hungry fangs. All at once, he’s aware of the vacancy over his chest – there is no folded steel strapped to his person, nothing sharp to fend off the scavengers. A snarl sounds at Dusk’s heels, followed by a litany of lilting howls, eerie noises that echo through the field like laughter. A voretooth hoard skulks into view and encircles them, corded, powerful muscles flexing around lithe frames. The advisor frowns at their curled talons as Dusk fluffs up defensively, chittering a warning.

“Steady, steady,” he whispers above the fearful chocobo’s crest. She shifts in place, gaze darting between the grotesque, aquiline snouts, sizing each of them up in turn.

Ignis closes his eyes and concentrates. There’s a reason he prefers blades, the balanced, reliable weight in his palm, how a dagger asks nothing of him, requires no ammunition. The trouble with magic is that with it comes a theft of your person, a stolen piece of your health. With little choice, he pulls at that buried thread anyway, and in the span of a breath feels a current of electricity skitter to life in his palm.

They’re in the center of a perfect circle of rapacious fangs, and Ignis intends to close the circuit.

He opens his eyes, and the voretooths all move forward as a unit. The advisor flicks his wrist with a deft flourish and the summoned lightning peals off toward one of the beasts, before splintering and bouncing between the others. They all howl in agony, a cacophonous, screeching chorus, twitching and writhing in pain, and for one blessed moment Ignis feels the satisfying rush of victory.

But then – the price. The trade-off. It happens all at once, his stamina evaporating like steam, limbs going liquid, and he isn’t prepared for the abrupt wave of fatigue. With a pathetic whimper, he slides off the saddle and lands right on his back in the prickly grass, vision swimming like a sickening kaleidoscope. He struggles for control, struggles to remain lucid, but there’s a howl from beside him, too close, and all at once a pair of beady eyes are leering down at him over a long, gnarled snout. The vile stench of burnt flesh fills his nostrils, and, half-delirious, he finds that he wants to laugh. How absurd, to have overcome so many obstacles only to die here, out in a useless field, felled by a creature he’d had no trouble besting on countless other occasions. 

The advisor tenses, preparing for the inevitable drag of sharp teeth into his carotid artery, when Dusk jumps forward and latches onto the voretooth by its neck, whipping it back and forth like a ragdoll. When it manages to wrench free of her hold, she throws out her wings, every feather sticking up, doubling her size, and makes a terrible noise crossed between a roar and a scream. There’s a stand-off then, a contest of sorts, Dusk stood resolute as a gargoyle between Ignis’ prone form and the rogue voretooth. The others keep their distance, eyeing the exchange warily, whimpering and licking their abused flesh. Time stretches on, slow and inexorable, but finally, _finally_ , the beast whines and ducks its head before turning and darting toward the distant treeline. The remaining party of canines follow close at their leader’s heels, limping away and keening in dissent.

Ignis blinks sluggishly as the chocobo relaxes her stance and bends to gently nuzzle his forehead with her pale beak.

“Nicely done,” he says, managing to lift one leaden hand to scratch appreciatively at her crest. The fowl trills with unease and pulls urgently at his shirtsleeve. It feels like an impossible task, to climb up on her back and continue on, and the desire to just lie there, to close his eyes and finally give over to the bone-deep exhaustion is almost too tempting to resist.

Almost.

The everpresent pull to return to Noctis’ side still overpowers all else, and so Ignis slings one arm around Dusk’s obliging neck and drags himself up her flank. Fumbling, he manages to hook a boot into the stirrup and with a groan pulls himself into the saddle. The chocobo turns back to study him, head darting up and down, clicking her beak in disdain. Ignis’ chest swells fondly at the sweet fowl’s obvious concern.

“I’m alright,” he insists, feeling somewhat strange to be addressing the mount as he would a person, but Dusk seems to accept the assertion, and when she strikes forward once more her pace is carefully measured. The advisor makes a mental note to ensure her stable is always stocked with the finest grain and freshest vegetables from this point onward.

+++

He catches the first glimpse of Insomnia just over an hour later, a shining row of skyscrapers twinkling against the inkblot sky, drawing him in like a wayward ship to a lighthouse. Dusk sees it too; there’s an excited hitch in her gait and she croons in anticipation as they close the remaining distance.

They breach the outer perimeter, the rows of modest homes and apartment complexes, and cut right through the city center. Ignis breathes a sigh of relief as the tall, imposing buildings rise up all around him, all gleaming black. A smile threatens to quirk his lips as Dusk parts the thinning crowds and darts past the Tempestas cathedral, past the crystalline monument to Ramuh, and right up to the shut castle gate. Ignis’ mouth quickly flattens into a somber line as he studies the fortified entrance and the extra stationed guards. He notes, with a creeping sense of dread, that the castle hasn’t been sealed like this since the decade of darkness. He feels it then, the current of unease hanging in the cool air, the thrumming military activity, sharp and insistent as the dull gleam glinting off their rifles.

“No entry,” one of the guards barks as Dusk sidles up to the towering, wrought-iron gate. Ignis’ frown deepens. He carefully slips from the saddle and stalks toward the young man with as much ire as he can muster.

“I am Hand of the King,” he grits, “and you will let me pass this instant.”

The other guards within earshot all trot over at the sudden commotion. One of them, an older veteran, steps forward to inspect Ignis more closely, before his face goes slack in disbelief. Even in the low light, the advisor can see that most of the color has drained from his cheeks. He looks poleaxed, as if…

_As if he’s seen a ghost._

“By the Six,” the man whispers on an oath. “It’s really you.”

“Where’s the king?” Ignis demands, heart thumping erratically. He _knows_ now, beyond any shrapnel of doubt, that the image he staged of a burnt battery soldier dressed up in his uniform must have reached Noctis, and the realization turns his empty stomach.

“Council room, east wing,” the veteran breathes. Then, seeming to come back to himself, he turns on his heel and barks, “Open the gate! Hurry up you idiots!”

As the metal spires part with creaking resistance, Ignis pauses to press his forehead to Dusk’s beak. “Thank you,” he murmurs. The fowl nips playfully at the unruly mess of his hair in answer, and he gives her one last appreciative pat before turning to thrust her reins at the young guard who had foolishly tried to turn him away.

“Take her to stable. Make sure she’s cleaned and fed.”

The poor boy nods and shakily jogs off with the chocobo in tow.

+++

Ignis feels absurd, staggering up the ostentatious obsidian staircase in second-hand fisherman’s attire, stinking of stale sweat and the lingering dregs of seasalt. His chest heaves, lungs mishandling the oxygen he’s gulping down as he soldiers forward, step by step. He’s levelled with a series of incredulous, open-mouthed stares as he presses in past the rows and rows of guards. He resolutely ignores them and their fleeting, hushed questions; his focus is entirely arrested by the notion of reuniting with Noctis and starting the long process of mending a wound he most certainly carved himself.

The curling stonework, the dark marble tiles, the sanguine carpet runners – they all speak of _home_ as he turns down the east wing, the weight of guilt threatening to draw him to his knees, where he could plead for forgiveness from the very person he would give anything, _had_ given _everything_ , to save. The rest of the world is a pale shadow in the face of his adoration, and he draws energy from this silent avowment, his depleted veins and scarred flesh protesting even as he strides toward the council room, eager to prove his fealty.

He’s nearly there when another guard steps forward, brows drawn together, blocking his path.

“This is a private meeting -“

“ _Step aside_ ,” Ignis growls, and pushes him away by his shoulder. The guard stumbles into the wall and gapes after him as he surges past. He strides shakily to the council room door and pauses, the reality of the situation sending a sudden chill down his spine, as though ice were dripping down his bare back. He is a dead man. A phantom, preparing to cross the veil. The thought is sickening, and his gut churns with latent anxiety.  
 _  
How will they react?_

He’s pulled from his reverie when he hears Noctis’ beloved voice from within, muted through the wall, arguing with another council member. The king sounds threadbare, weak in the seams. He sounds like he hasn’t slept in days, and it is with a pang of guilt that Ignis figures this assessment is most likely true.

It takes a surprising amount of courage to raise his quavering hand. Just this, his fist curled in on itself, hesitating before a slab of dark oak.

He knocks.

There’s a pause in the discussion, a few scattered comments of dissent. At length, Noctis’ voice, laced with anger, rises up.

“ _No interruptions_.”

Ignis shivers in place, from exhaustion or anticipation or both.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” he intones. His voice has always been his biggest betrayal. That cultured, velvety inflection – there’d be no mistaking him for someone else. A taut silence stretches on for eternity before time picks up again, at a much quicker pace, reality on fast-forward. There’s frantic shuffling from within, chairs knocking over, curses spat as bodies clash and push against one another in their haste to all reach the door at once. When it’s swung open at last, there are others gathered in around Noctis, but Ignis only sees his king, his vision narrowing like a fish-eye lens where Noct is the only point of clarity. Those Cygillan-blue eyes growing wide, pupils darting this way and that, piecing him together, confirming he’s _real._ Then he’s crushed, smothered by Noct, and Gladio, and Prompto, their cries melding into one beautiful, heart-wrenching clamor, three pairs of hands holding him together, supporting his weight. His collar is damp with tears and he can feel Noctis pressed against his front, shaking, pulling at his shoulders even though he could not physically get any closer, but the king tries anyway, fingernails catching on the coarse flannel in his desperation.

Ignis is warm, warm in a way that he can’t recall ever feeling before, like being folded in sunlight. 

“ _You fucking idiot_ ,” Gladio rumbles near his ear, voice hitching. Prompto is murmuring something unintelligible into the fabric between his shoulderblades, his slight frame quivering from head to foot. Noctis remains silent, but trembles with emotion, burying his head further into the juncture between Ignis’ shoulder and neck. He huffs out a guileless laugh and nudges Noctis’ crest with his own. The king presses their foreheads together, eyes slamshut, teeth grit as he tightens his grip on Ignis’ shirt, as though the advisor might float away otherwise.

“ _Ignis_ ,” he breathes in a fractured voice.

His memory is infallible, but _this_ moment stands out against the others, one more masterpiece in a gallery that’s already crowded. This close he can see the dark lines beneath Noctis’ eyes. He can see each individual lash fanned across the sharp jut of his cheeks. He spots the fragile rise of the king’s collarbones, prominent even from beneath his wrinkled dress shirt, and Ignis’ stomach drops a bit as he wonders when Noct had last eaten. It’s an old predilection, this need to comfort him, to draw out his misery like poison from a wound. Even half-drunk with exhaustion, he yearns to scrub the grime from his hands, roll up his sleeves, and create something beautiful and nourishing from flour and whatever fruit he can lift from the kitchen staff.

There’s a reassurance on his tongue, but he’s startled from his reverie by a council member loudly clearing his throat.

“I trust you have quite a bit to report, Your Grace,” he says, foolishly asserting a commanding voice, despite having no true authority over him. Ignis turns his weary gaze upon the elderly man and narrows his eyes in challenge. Before he can speak, Gladio releases his hold and stomps over to the fool man, drawing up to his full height, the brunt of his strength obvious over the tightly-corded musculature of his endless shoulders.

“The meeting’s over,” the Shield growls. He’s like a beast, his words hissed from between a clench of sharp teeth. “We’ll fill you in later.”

The elder is unaffected by Gladio’s display. He crosses his arms, long sleeves tangling together with the motion.

“You are in no position to order me around, young man.”

Prompto then extricates himself from Ignis’ back and cautiously advances on the scene.

“Hey, listen,” he interjects, his worrydance hands held out before him in a placating gesture. There are still teartracks on his freckled cheeks. “We thought we lost him. You gotta give us some time-“

“And _you_ ,” the council member snaps, rounding on Prompto like an insolent child, “are well out of your depth. I’ve served this kingdom for 24 years. The quicker we debrief our scout, the quicker we can take _action_.”

Noctis is trembling again, from rage this time, not relief. With a soft, scarcely audible whimper he gently withdraws from Ignis’ arms and marches past his marksman, past his shield, until he is mere centimeters away from the frustrated councilman, their noses nearly touching.

“He’s not a _scout_ -”

“Erm, no, Your Majesty, of course not, please forgive my lapse in-“

“-and we will proceed as Gladiolus has said. We’ll meet again tomorrow. In the meantime, you should stay out of my sight.”

The light of challenge withers from the man’s beady eyes and he shrinks into a hasty bow.

“O-of course,” he stammers, before turning and shuffling away as quickly as he can manage.

Ignis quirks a brow at the blatant pull of rank, bemused despite the circumstance. They are all still as statues as they watch the old man’s retreating back until he finally turns the corner and disappears from view. Noctis transforms then, his shoulders dropping at once, and spins around so quickly that it gives the advisor second-hand whiplash. The king’s eyebrows are knitted together high enough that they nearly touch his hairline.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.”

The other two only watch as Noct steps up to him once more. He unashamedly lifts a hand to Ignis’ forearm and traces the coarse fabric with the pad of his thumb, drawing soothing little circles. Ignis feels flayed open by the emotions playing across the king’s features, the flickers of despair twined with unmistakable adoration.

The advisor offers a small, secretive smile.

“I _did_ give my word, Your Majesty.”

Noctis sucks in a breath and his head drops immediately. Ignis means to move forward, to perhaps draw him in once more, a comfort to them both, but as he wills his leaden feet forward, he falters. He might have fallen over had the other three not jumped to action, quick and eager to support his weight.

“Come on,” Gladio says in the softest voice Ignis has ever heard from him. “You look like hell. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

He’s carefully shepherded up to the king’s chambers.

“Thank you,” he manages as the door clicks shut behind them. The tension between the four of them is palpable. It raises the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, tenses the aching muscles of his shoulder blades. He was a dead man, and now he’s back with them all in Noctis’ foyer. It feels like a time shift, like stepping into an odd liminal space. There’s an overwrought moment where they all just stare at him, and it hits him then – this is how it has always been. Looking to him for answers. Waiting for his direction in an impossible situation. For once, he has nothing to give, cannot dredge up a thread of wisdom from the muddled depths of his thoughts. Between his empty stomach and heavy eyelids, he simply can’t bring the world into focus.

_Please, forgive me._

Gladio breaks the spell by placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. It’s meant to be steadying, reassuring, but when those square fingers push into his poorly tended wound, he winces and stumbles backward against the door frame, clutching at the bullet hole as a fresh wave of pain thrums through his entire form.

“Oh, shit, Iggy-“ the Shield gasps, fumbling around an apology. Noctis’ hands are hovering hesitantly about him, his eyes wide and frantic, helpless in his unsurety.

 _“You’re hurt,”_ the king hisses.

“Nothing to fret over,” Ignis manages to grit out. He can feel the fresh bloom of blood from beneath his fingertips, and Noctis must notice the spreading stain.

“Get Magdalena!” he barks over his shoulder. Prompto, with his quicksilver legs, nods and rushes past them in a blur.

“Can you make it to the couch?” Noct gently asks.

Ah, and _there’s_ a good question. He can scarcely support his own weight, and yet has to suppress a wry chuckle at the realization that even after spanning a landmass, crossing a raging sea, and escaping a pack of ravenous voretooth, the most trying leg of his journey seems to be traversing the few scant feet between the doorway and Noctis’ couch.

However- the king is still so visibly rattled, hovering over him as though he might shatter like porcelain. His banked determination flares to life, and with a shaking nod, he pushes off from the door frame and ambles over to the soft leather couch, but not without the careful length of Noctis’ arm keeping him steady.

It’s such a reprieve to sink into the plush cushions, to rest at long last, that he momentarily forgets the pain snaking from his shoulder. His head falls back and he sighs indulgently, equal parts content and thoroughly drained.

The fragile quiet is short-lived, however. Prompto and Magdalena burst into the room like dual twisters, both aflutter with nervous energy. Ignis tilts his head up at the castle’s head nurse with a fond, lop-sided grin, and she sneers down at him in turn.

“Look at you,” she snaps, “still getting into trouble after all these years.” Even as she speaks, she moves about him with focused intent. She slams her briefcase on the center table, unclicks the hinges and withdraws a quick handful of remedial supplies before setting to work.

“Oh, come now,” Ignis drawls, recalling their banter over the years, “you’ve seen me in much worse shape than this.”

Magdalena harrumphs as she yanks his flannel to the side and inspects the hastily-patched wound with a withering frown.

“I dunno Iggy,” Prompto quavers as he leans in close to inspect the proceedings. “That looks, uh, pretty bad.”

The nurse swats him away with a dismissive flick of her palm, and the marksman retreats with an apologetic squeak.

“I always hoped you’d grow into your role,” Magdalena grumbles. Her sandpaper voice betrays her tender motions, however; her fingertips are light as they gently remove the sorry dressing and deftly work to sanitize the broken flesh. The wrinkles on her forehead deepen as she says, “You’re supposed to be the one with some sense around here. But no! Silly of me to think you’d actually try to keep out of harm’s way. And how old are you now? Thirty or so? Thirty-one? Still out courting Death like a damned teenager.”

“Will he be alright?” Noctis interjects.

The nurse sighs in exasperation, her entire form heaving with the effort. She turns to face him, entirely unconcerned with his title as king, when she answers, “Yes, he’ll live, but only as long as he stops throwing himself at every possible danger. The paste-eating fool.”

Gladio snorts at the insult, and even Prompto has to disguise a fit of giggles behind a very unconvincing cough.

Noctis doesn’t laugh. His expression remains pinched, pained even.

+++

Magdalena promptly leaves after her work is done. She imparts instructions to the king as she gathers her things, as though he were Ignis’ keeper. What flips the advisor’s stomach is the fact that Noctis hangs on her every word, clearly committing the directions to heart. It’s axis-tiltingly beautiful to be within the shadow of his regard.

When it’s only the four of them again, Noctis draws up a chair from across the cherrywood center table. Gladio and Prompto flank him on either side, stood tall and strong as marble pillars, silently daring the universe to wrench their group apart once more. The king leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. There’s that same desperation in his eyes, in his strained mouth pulled taut. A man before a spectre.

“So,” he begins, shakily, “what happened, Specs?”

Ignis tells them. About Paxton, about Marion and the mysterious Arresta corporation. He breathlessly gives his report on everything that transpired, divulging every bit of intel he’d plucked out from the strange, and no less tiring, journey.

“Goddamnit,” Gladio seethes. “Should’ve known better-“

“That’s… a lot-“ Prompto manages, mostly overwhelmed. His fretful fingers pick at his bracelets as he sways in place.

Noctis is silent for a stretch, brows still pitched as though in agony, and he’s staring so openly at his advisor that Ignis wishes, in the moment, that the earth would yawn open and swallow him whole.

“You could’ve-“ Noctis falters, breaks his gaze to shake his head of whatever dark spiral he’s arrived upon. Ignis, once again, feels the icewater pang of guilt as he observes his broken king.

“I’m alright,” he offers. “I… suppose I owe you all an apology.”

Silence, then. The heavy, second-hand veil of dread hanging over them all.

“Nah,” Gladio speaks up at length. “I think I would’ve done the same.”

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees. Even with their admissions, however, there is an undercurrent of pure exhaustion. They all sound haunted.

Ignis waits for the king to wave away the apology like the others have, but his expression darkens, tips over the razor-thin edge into rage.

“You’re the smartest person I know,” he growls. Grit teeth, clutched fists. “You couldn’t think of _something_?!” He’s on his feet now, leering down at his advisor like some vengeful god. “You knew what would happen. You _knew_ what this’d do to me.”

“Hey, hold on,” it’s the shield, interjecting with a heavy hand at Noctis’ arm. “He tried with the book-“

“Tch, yeah. A vague treasure hunt and a fucking poem. That really put my mind at ease after getting a picture of him _burned to death_ -“

“Like I said,” Ignis interrupts. He’s so tired, too tired to endure one of their arguments. He can feel the weight of Noct’s trust slipping through his fingers like sand. “I apologize. In retrospect I would have taken a different approach. It was never my intention to hold my tongue at your expense.”

Noctis is rearing back, no doubt another scathing comment on the tip of his tongue, when Prompto cuts through the tension like a knife and shoves past the other two so he can lean forward in an awkward, half-bodied hug.

“I’m just glad you’re back,” he murmurs into Ignis’ shoulder. Ignis returns the embrace with one arm, grateful for the blonde’s uncanny ability to lift a mood. Prompto doesn’t linger, either, instead steps away after a string of seconds and stretches with an exaggerated yawn.

“Dunno about you guys, but I think I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime. I’m beat, can’t keep my eyes open.”

Gladio is still casting a sidelong glare at the king, holding him in place, but after a few moments he relents his grip and nods in assent.

“Yeah. We all need rest. You want a hand getting to your room, Specs?”

Before the advisor can answer, Noctis says, “No. I’ll look after him tonight.”

“Your Majesty, that isn’t-“

“Not up for debate. You’re staying here.”

The shield eyes him warily, still hovering as though Noctis might snap at any moment. Then, with a defeated groan, he relents and moves away.

“Go easy on him,” he says, and the simple comment sounds more like a thinly veiled threat.

+++

Prompto and Gladio take their leave, and Ignis, despite the heavy tendrils of guilt squeezing his heart, has to struggle to stay awake. Noctis disappears to the kitchen and returns with a glass of ice water, which Ignis gratefully accepts. He gulps it all down at once.

“Want another?” the king asks.

“No, thank you.” He wants to apologize again, wants to throw himself on a damned sword if that’s what it would take to earn Noct’s forgiveness. “Noctis-“

“If you wanna shower I have some clothes you can borrow.”

Ignis is filthy, can feel the grime and salt clinging to every inch of his skin, but there’d be no way he could shower in this state without passing out halfway through the process.

“In the morning. I don’t think I could manage.”

“Right,” Noct whispers, more to himself than his advisor. Then, in a few hurried motions, he’s suddenly on his knees, pulling on Ignis’ rubber boots.

“You can take the bed, I’ll crash on the couch,” he says casually as he removes the first boot then focuses on the other. “If you need anything I’ll be right out here.”

It’s absurd, the Lucian king on his knees fussing over his servant’s shoes. Bits of dried mud fleck off and dirty his perfect hands, and Ignis feels like all the air has been punched right out him. It’s an act of servitude, freely given, and there are implications there that he lacks the faculties to fully dissect.

He means to argue, to insist that the king need not put himself out like this in his own home, but all the fight has long since been drained out of him.

Instead, he breathlessly murmurs, “Thank you.”

Noctis sets the boots aside and gets to his feet once more. He offers a hand.

“C’mon, I’ll help you.”

Ignis clasps the proffered hand and is led to the bedroom, one arm slung over Noct’s shoulder while the king easily supports his weight. The borrowed warmth lulls the advisor into a near-doze as they fumble forward together. He can feel the way Noct’s muscles shift as he moves, catches a hint of that latent strength, so easily concealed beneath his slight frame. His lips curl in amusement at the thought; a fair share of creatures and foolish men caught their end at Noct’s blade, all because they grossly underestimated him. Tucked teeth. A beast within a beauty.

Ignis bites out a quiet groan of self-admonishment. He figures the bloodloss must be more severe than he previously thought if he’s waxing poetic over being half-carried to bed. It’s a quiet noise, but they’re so close that Noctis must hear, because he comes to an abrupt halt a few feet from their destination.

“You alright?” he asks, a little too hurriedly, the frayed edges of his voice laced with panic. His obvious concern is equal parts endearing and heartwrenching.

“Yes,” Ignis intones, “Just… tired, is all.”

The king nods and helps him the rest of the way before gently lowering him on the edge of the plush, overlarge mattress. The tenderness in his actions squeeze all the air out of Ignis’ lungs. Noct’s face is a riot, pinched with disbelief and banked fury, and there’s a tremble in his nimble hands. He pauses, hovering over his advisor, gaze sweeping his form once more as if to reaffirm his very existence. When he finally does step away, Ignis immediately mourns the loss of body heat, the perfectly temperate room suddenly seeming as chilly as a frozen taiga.

“Ok,” Noct says. “G’night.”

“Goodnight,” Ignis mumbles feebly as the door is clicked shut.

+++

He sinks into the overstuffed scarlet coverlet and every stitch of his creation sings in boneless relief. There’s a thrumming ache that skitters across his entire form, but it’s manageable now, spread out as he is in the luxurious bed. His bones turn to lead as he tilts his head back into a double-stack of soft pillows, and he catches the slightest hint of Noctis’ scent – the notes of coconut shampoo twined with salt and rainwater. It’s enough to bid his eyes open, enough of a reminder to let his weary gaze drift to the door and focus on the sliver of light that still trickles in through the cracks.

Noct’s hopeless stare is seared on the backs of his eyelids. He can’t rest, not with this gulf between them, not when his king is suffering.

Thinking all sorts of unsavory curses, Ignis growls under his breath as he swings his legs over and hobbles to his feet. It’s a miserable business, this obsession, this insistent need to see to his king’s wellbeing. He manages to drag himself to the door without breaking anything and carefully turns the handle.

At the end of the hall, Noct is sat on the couch, hunched forward, his hands tangled up in his own hair. Ignis’ breath catches in his throat at the image, and all at once it hits him – he _knows_ what the king is feeling, this shadow of loss, the whiplash of dragging a loved one back from the brink of oblivion. The fringes of his vision blur with the sick, remembered flicker of violet flames, and for the first time that evening, he knows exactly what to do.

“Noct.”

The king jerks up, eyes wide and fearful.

“Uh – is the light bothering you? Hang on, I’ll get the lamp-“

“No need. This is silly, isn’t it? Your bed is big enough for a whole platoon of Gladios. Come on.”

Noctis’ eyebrows twist into something complicated, then once he’s fully registered Ignis’ words, he huffs out a disbelieving little laugh. It’s music, more beautiful than the Tempestas bells, that lilting, sly chuckle.

“I don’t really want to imagine _‘a whole platoon of Gladios’_ in my bed, but alright.”

And it’s easy then, suddenly, like a tectonic plate has shifted. Noctis wears that fragile smile all the way down the hall and doesn’t even change out of his dress clothes before faceplanting into the mattress, only bothering to kick off his boots as an afterthought. Ignis collapses beside him, and the lingering unrest that plagued his warring mind dissolves like sugar in tea.

He catches the outline of Noctis’ squashed face in his peripheral vision, his hair limned in the dim moonlight.

“M’exhausted,” the king mumbles into his pillow.

“Really?” Ignis prods. “ _I_ could run a marathon.”

Noct groans at the sarcasm, but his shoulders shake with a poorly-concealed chuckle.

“You’re th’worst, Iggy. Go to sleep.”

It’s fantastic advice. Ignis lets his arms flop out in a truly undignified sprawl and he hums in contentment, eager for rest. He only barely registers the brush of Noct’s fingertips against his own, the flutter of a moth’s wing, before giving over to blissful, dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's something soft. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter.


	8. The First Morning

Ignis is stuck in the warm, hazy moments before fully waking, and he registers, just from the periphery of his senses, a warm duvet pulled up to his chin, the red light of sunrise pressed against his shut eyelids, and beneath everything else: the faint, lingering scent of coconut shampoo.

He opens his eyes.

There’s a picosecond of confusion, the malaise of awakening in a strange bed, before the world stitches itself back together. He cants his head to find the other half of the bed woefully empty. Still, Ignis can hear distinctive shuffling down the hall, and his traitorous lips pull into a wry smirk as he realizes this is, perhaps, the first time in their long history that Noctis is awake before him.

The process of disentangling himself from the heavy quilt’s inviting cocoon of slumber is a long one. His pain has evolved from a crippling ache into a sharper, stiffer brand of discomfort that is no less frustrating but at the very least affords him relative control over his limbs. He can feel every inch of skin rasp against the filthy, coarse fabric he still wears from his journey, and scowls in dismay at the grimy sensation. In the moment, he can think of nothing more heavenly than a shower.

Ignis frowns at his spectacles where they lie perched on the bedside table, scratched up and crooked. Still, even with his limited vision, he catches the blurry shapes of a crisp white t-shirt and lounge pants draped neatly over the chaise lounge next to the master bath. It’s such a simple gesture, this small kindness, but it nonetheless fuels the crippling fondness that always threatens to steal the breath right out of Ignis’ lungs. He can picture Noct fumbling around in the darkness of early morning, slowly sliding open dresser drawers and fishing around blindly therein for a suitable change of clothes for his sleeping advisor.

He troubles to his feet and fumbles into the bathroom. It’s like a rebirth, stripping the borrowed clothes from his person, shedding the turmoil of the past few days with a roll of his shoulders. He turns the shower as hot as he can bear and steps beneath the cleansing stream with a shuddering sigh. Relief hits him then – the heady realization that he’s _home_ , and only a few rooms away from his preferred company. He runs his long fingers down his forearm, mesmerized as the dirt melts away and swirls down the drain, along with any lingering threads of trepidation.

Ignis shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, just feeling the steady stream of water against his crest, his shoulders, his spine. His world is remade, like it had been when Noctis first sat upon the throne, glowing beneath the rays of a resurrected sun.

+++

Once he’s toweled dry, the advisor pulls on the t-shirt and black sweatpants laid out for him, and with damp hair and an easy smile, moves to greet his king. Upon opening the bedroom door, he is accosted with a very appetizing cocktail of scents; he registers eggs, red onion, and spinach right away. Drawn by his hunger, he pads down the hall and lingers beneath the archway, transfixed by the scene before him.

Noctis is cooking. There is a half-done omelet in the frying pan and a colorful sprawl of diced vegetables ( _vegetables!?_ ) on the center island. The king himself is turned away, glaring at the coffee machine as if daring it to produce anything less than the perfect cup of Ebony. His hair is all mussed, and he’s dressed as casually as a teenager in only a black t-shirt and pajama bottoms. The simple ensemble makes him look younger, too, pins Ignis with memories from over a decade prior, when Noct was still a forlorn prince, struggling to live up to his father’s mantle.

Ignis is stricken by the frightfully domestic scene, his senses overloaded by the implication of something he’ll almost assuredly never have for his own. It’s an odd sensation, the marriage of hope and heartbreak, this fragile slab of ice settling right over his chest. He blinks in rapid succession to clear his head, steady his thoughts.

Noctis is pouring a mug of fresh coffee when he steps forward and says, “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

The king startles, dropping the mug and scowling as puddles of Ebony and fragments of porcelain scatter about his pale feet.

“Shit. Sorry Iggy, let me just-“

He’s quick to kneel, scrambling to pick up the pieces with a frantic look in his eye. He refuses to meet Ignis’ gaze, and that is, perhaps, the catalyst that spurs him to action.

The advisor feels drugged as he cautiously advances, turning off the burners of the oven as he moves, his eyes never leaving the curl of Noct’s bent form.

“Noct,” he breathes. His voice is so, so quiet, yet carries an impossibly heavy sentiment. The king stills in his frenzied cleaning and slowly rises to stand properly. His chest heaves a few times, absolutely radiating anxiety, before he pivots and abruptly plonks his forehead right onto Ignis’ chest.

The advisor is stunned for a moment. With a light, nervous chuckle, he cautiously raises a hand to card through Noctis’ unruly hair. It’s a comforting gesture, sure, but is also incredibly indulgent. The strands are soft beneath the pads of his fingers, and the king hums contentedly under the gentle touch. It’s so surreal, running his fingers through those dark locks, relishing in the dull weight pressed against his sternum, a little piece of paradise carved out in the king’s own kitchen.

_If only every morning could be like this one._

Noctis’ breathing ramps down after a time, and he slowly steps away. Ignis lets his hand drop obediently to his side, not wanting to overstep. He is a servant to the crown, first and foremost. Dreaming of domestic scenes like this is unbecoming of his role, much like how a person might stare up at a flock of birds and idly wonder how nice it might be to fly. It’s a fantastical dream, merely a farce; nothing that could ever take root in reality, surely.

And yet… Noctis is looking up at him with an expression of subdued awe. The king hastily clasps his hand, not unlike their first meeting. Those dark brows are drawn high again, and he’s searching his advisor’s face, looking for answers. Ignis is frozen in his grasp, in his gaze, can do little more than stand there uselessly. For once, he doesn’t have the answer. Time spins out of alignment, there in the ostentatious kitchen, the air heavy with coffee grounds and red onion and the serrated edge of anticipation.

“I thought I lost you,” Noctis confesses, scarcely more than a whisper. “And I never told you.”

Ignis is sure his heart stops. The warmth of Noct’s palms enclosing his own threatens to sear right through each layer of skin. Third degree burns, this mounting pressure, the unraveling seams of subtext, the glint of pure terror in those beloved eyes.

“What did you never tell me?” he questions, because he has to. His curiosity wins in the end, overpowers his own self-preservation, cuts through the heavy curtain of doubt. He needs to know, needs to hear Noct say it aloud.

The king looks down at their joined hands and breathes deeply.

“Specs…” he pauses, then shakes his head. “ _Ignis_ ,” he corrects, speaking the name like it’s sacred. “You’ve always been there for me. You’ve never-“ his words catch around some unspoken emotion, and he takes a moment to gather himself. “You’ve never let me down. You’re amazing. And, to me, it seems kind of obvious that I would… love you so much. But I needed you to hear it.”

All the oxygen is sucked out of the room in one dizzying sweep. Distantly, Ignis registers how absurd he must look, drawn back as though shot, eyes wide as saucers. In moments of weakness he had imagined this; on nights when the loneliness seemed too overwhelming to bear, he would spin pretty fantasies of how it might play out if Noctis ever returned his feelings. But _this_ – this renders all those daydreams as paltry in comparison. The unerring ache in his chest blooms into something beautiful, bordering on hopeful, and he’s _happy_ , so happy in that moment, that Noctis must take his awestruck silence as rejection.

The king gently extricates his hands from Ignis’ own and steps back, eyes resolutely fixed on the tile between them.

“I know that was a lot to unload on you,” he murmurs. And the advisor has been lauded for his way with words, has received commendations on his prowess for pushing a persuasive argument, and is by all accounts a linguistic marvel, but stripped bare as he is by Noct’s bravery, he can’t manage to string together a single sentence. It’s almost unfathomable – everything he’s always craved to hear, everything he assumed would never be his… all those years of stolen half-glances, fleeting touches, quiet devotion… all suddenly repaid to him tenfold. He doesn’t even know where to start – how could he possibly express these thoughts aloud without sounding like a babbling moron?

And so, where words fail him, he turns, instead, to action. He lifts a trembling hand to cup Noct’s jaw and gently pull his gaze upward. He relishes in the rough drag of the king’s beard against his fingertips as he leans forward, cautiously, but with clear intent.

Realization dawns, and Noctis’ mouth parts in anticipation. They’re close enough that Ignis can feel each puff of breath against his own lips. The air around them, _between_ them, is charged, and Ignis doesn’t think his heart has ever beat this hard. All the battles he’s faced, and _this_ is what nearly does him in, this breathless scene in a kitchen, surrounded by eggshells and diced vegetables and _love_.

It is Noctis who seals the kiss, lurching forward with enough force to knock Ignis back a few paces before his lumbar collides with the marble-top island. Noctis kisses like a storm, open-mouthed and hungry, clawing at Ignis’ shoulders as if to keep him, possess him. As if he had ever belonged to anyone else. It’s surreal, the slide of Noct’s tongue against his own, the taut plane of his stomach pressed right up against him, tight enough that nothing could fit between them. Ignis’ clever brain stutters to a halt, struggling to process this new reality where his king is clawing at his shoulderblades and is otherwise occupied with licking at his incisors. It’s _maddening_.

When his faculties _do_ eventually catch up to him, Ignis gives as good as he gets, clutching Noct’s hair with one hand while the other remains fixed just beneath his sharp jaw. They’re _straining_ , sealed together so tightly that it’s nearly painful, but the advisor has never felt so elated. It’s as if each of his individual cells is lighting up in unison, and the world-shattering sensation leaves him weak in the knees and grateful for the ungiving edge of the counter maintaining his balance.

Still – beyond the warmth suffusing his very core, the niggling weight of words left unsaid lingers at the periphery of Ignis’ consciousness. He breaks away, chest heaving, and looks right into Noct’s blown-wide pupils as he says, “I have loved you since the moment I met you.”

The advisor is well-versed in reading intentions, in plucking information away from the emotions playing out on another’s face. So, when Noct’s expression screws into a beautiful combination of adoration and pure _want,_ he can predict what happens next.

They collide. By now, Ignis’ back is pressed so hard against the marble that he’s certain there will be a bruise in the morning, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because Noctis’ hands are _everywhere_ , fisting his hair before skimming down the taut tendons of his neck ( _blunt nails, a hiss of breath_ ), gripping at his shoulders, palming over his chest, his stomach, causing the sensitive flesh to jump beneath his searching touch. The king continues to drink from him, kissing with poorly-banked ferocity, as his fingers drift under Ignis’ borrowed shirt and splay across the ridges of his abdomen. A pained noise rumbles up from the back of Noctis’ throat, and the lingering shred of Ignis’ propriety _snaps_.

His entire image and manner of being was built on a solid foundation of restraint, the very core of him, the denial of his baser instincts, the nerve-splitting knowledge that he _had_ to be better than the common folk, sharper, in control. Now Ignis can feel that foundation splinter into rubble at his feet, feels it as keenly as an actual earthquake - a rushing wave of desire and possessiveness, this need to hold, to keep. They clash here like they would in a sparring match, each clamoring for control, a madcap of fear and longing and _relief_. He’s alive and _Noct’s_ alive, and the king, consumed with desperation and wanting, is writhing against him, undulating his lithe frame like a ripple. Soft, demanding lips move against his own, and there’s a searching tongue in the cavern of his mouth and the occasional slow rasp of teeth. It’s too much, too much to resist. A banquet laid out before a starved man.

-And so Ignis unravels. Silently grateful for his innate ability to multitask, he maintains the feverish pace of their kiss as he lifts Noctis’ shirt to brush his knuckles against the china-bone ribcage beneath, cataloguing the ensuing hiss of pleasure, documenting each new noise like a biologist. His fingers slide lower to grip a protruding hip bone and Noctis _shudders_ in his hold. It fills Ignis with power and an acute, dark sense of pride to be responsible for drawing such reactions from his typically distant king. The sensation swells in his chest and swiftly flows downward to pool in his gut, this searing, torturous, intoxicating heat. He tightens his grip on Noctis’ hip with one hand and uses the other to skirt up the nape of his neck, and pauses a moment before fisting the fine hairs there at the base of his skull and pulling his head to the side. At the same time, Ignis finally breaks their kiss, pulling back to peer down at swollen, bitten lips, feeling each heaving inhalation as Noct gasps and struggles for air.

The Lucian castle has always been resplendent with stone-cast statues of warriors of old, imposing figures with chiseled musculature and wide, appraising eyes set deep in the darkest obsidian, and paintings from every master, framed in golden filigree. One can’t stroll down a hallway without passing a menagerie of artistic wonders, and yet, Ignis knows with chilling certainty that he’ll never behold anything so beautiful as _this._ Noctis peers up at him expectantly from beneath a disheveled fringe of twilight locks, hooded eyes and parted lips, his shirt rucked up by Ignis’ commanding arm, seemingly content to be held in place by a tight handful of hair. It’s enough to still him, a stirring sensation that reaches beyond the arousal, the echo of something ancient, the heavy weight of an emotion he’s carried since he was very young.

He’s lost in his awe, adrift at sea, and it’s the wrecked timbre of Noctis’ voice that pulls him back to shore.

“Ignis,” he rasps. “ _Please_ don’t stop.”

Noctis is looking to him now as he always has. The most powerful man in the world held in place by Ignis’ own hands, pleading for more, as if he’d ever have to beg Ignis for anything, as if the advisor wouldn’t willfully pry open his own ribcage and offer up the withered husk of a heart that only ever beat for one person. And so, in a flash of movement, he reverses their positions, spinning around to pin Noctis against the counter and simultaneously jerking his head further to the side, rough enough that it must have been painful. The king snarls at the abrupt motion but doesn’t protest, willfully exposing the smooth column of his neck – an open invitation. Ignis leans forward and licks up one protruding tendon, savoring the taste of salt and skin, before baring his teeth like the predator he is and nipping a meandering path back down to the juncture at his shoulder. Every muscle in Noctis’ body is tensed, strung tight as a bowstring and trembling, his very teeth clenched in what might have seemed like agony under any other pretense. Following his instinct, Ignis inhales the scent of him, the coconut and petrichor and the everpresent ozone of latent magic, and _bites_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Noct chokes out, bucking against him, hands clawing at his back and sides, and Ignis feels the heat of him plainly now, a hot iron brand pressed up against him, burning straight down to the marrow. All at once, it’s too much. They cannot keep ascending. Ignis releases his hold on Noct’s hair to recapture his lips with an open mouth, inelegant and wild, and both their hands move in tandem, fumbling to reach under pajama pants, desperate for a more intimate point of contact.

They’re both painfully hard and leaking, and Ignis’ vision swims as he pulls Noctis forward once they’re exposed. He groans into his king’s mouth at the obscene pleasure that skitters up his spine. It’s impossible to bear, but then Noct rolls his hips and the sensation triples, this sweet torturous drag of flesh against flesh. Little whimpering sounds escape from Noctis’ throat, as much a plea as spoken words, and so Ignis digs a hand between them, wraps his long, capable fingers around both their pricks, and sets a steady rhythm.

Noctis’ jaw immediately goes slack, and his mouth is still _right there_ but they’re no longer kissing, not really, just breathing a shared need into each others’ lungs. Every twist of his wrist is a punch to the gut, every slow slide upward a revelation. Ignis can feel the pulse of Noctis’ desire against his palm like a lifeline, can hear each faltered breath and keening groan. It’s a rapturous Purgatory, a devastating fulfillment, and when the last tendril of Ignis’ control begins to slip, he chances a glance upward to make eye contact. The effect is devastating, peering into those fathomless night-ocean irises that have been reduced to mere slivers of color around pupils blown wide with _want_.

“Oh,” Ignis gasps, right at the precipice. Overwhelmed, he ducks his head and Noctis’ hand immediately shoots up to curl around the back of his neck in a possessive gesture.

“Oh _Noct_ -“

He falls. The advisor’s ministrations stutter as the world bleeds away for several euphoric moments, all white light and the roar of blood in his ears, this ebbing, crushing tide of pleasure wracking his entire body. He distantly registers a slew of keening curses from Noctis, who twitches against him, similarly ruined. They’re sealed together by sweat and pure exertion, and for one blessed moment, everything is perfect.

When Ignis’ faculties return, his eyelids flutter open and he’s peering down at the mess of them both. A stone of panic settles in his chest then, the harrowing realization of what he’s done; it’s the dagger’s edge of betrayal leveled right against his carotid artery. Dread and shame intermingle as he slowly raises his head to meet Noctis’ gaze.

-But his king looks _happy_. He’s wearing a sex-cocked grin and is quick to draw a shaky hand to his advisor’s burning cheek.

“That was, uh. Wow.”

Ignis says nothing in return, because he doesn’t dare to hope that this was more than just an outlet for frustration, a mere lapse in judgement.

“Iggy? You okay?”

 _No. No, I’m not ‘okay.’ What have I done? What do you_ want _from me?_

Rather than surrender to his fear, Ignis straightens and offers a strained smile. As always, in moments of duress he reverts to battle tactics, pulling on the cool façade of indifference to deflect from the gnarled, writhing uncertainty that churns within.

“I’m perfectly fine, no need to worry.” He tucks them both away and reaches for a handtowel. “Here, let me clean you up-“

“ _Don’t_ ,” Noctis snaps.

Ignis freezes. Trepidation threads through his veins like icewater.

“Don’t do that,” the king continues in a softer voice. “What are you so afraid of?”

The advisor slowly straightens, his useless hands hovering at his own sides.

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” he counters, deflecting. Noctis tilts his head, lips pulled into a taught line.

“You might always be the smartest guy in the room, but I _know_ you.” Here he pauses to cocoon Ignis’ hand within his own. “I meant what I said,” he nearly whispers, his voice low and vulnerable. His brows slowly crease with concern as the silence drags on between them, and his eyes drop down to the tile below once more. “If you’re not sure, then I get it-“

The implication is equal parts absurd as it is heartbreaking, and Ignis’ carefully curated defenses melt away at the king’s obvious unsurety.

“You have no idea,” Ignis blurts, supplicating himself before his king, “-the depth of what I feel for you. I’m afraid I lack the words, but Noct, there is _nothing_ I want more than to be with you.”

He means to elaborate, or to backtrack, to offer an easy way out if that is what Noctis so desires, but the king’s countenance lights up immediately at Ignis’ stuttered confession and he is quick to pull him into a warm embrace.

“Good,” he murmurs into his advisor’s shirt, “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Ignis is stunned for a moment, but then he can’t help but to laugh. It bubbles up from his core as he holds Noctis tighter, relishing in the boneless warmth that spreads between them. He finds it almost comical – the years and years of yearning trivialized by Noctis’ easy acceptance.

“What’s so funny?”

Ignis shakes his head.

“Pay no mind, I’m just having a moment.”

Noctis huffs out a small, contented chuckle of his own, and gently draws away, before gesturing to the forgotten skillet behind him.

“I think your breakfast might’ve gotten cold.”

“I’m sure it still tastes delicious.”

“Yeah? You’ve never been a fan of my cooking before.”

Ignis only hums in response. He’s half-listening, too overwhelmed with joy to fully comprehend what Noctis is saying.

Noct, of course, catches on to this rare lapse in cognitive function right away.

“Well, at least now I know how to shut you up when you’re being bossy.”

He waggles his eyebrows rakishly to emphasize his point, and Ignis finally snaps back with a put-upon scowl.

“ _Me?_ Bossy?”

The king rolls his eyes and turns a speculative eye to the shards of coffee mug on the floor before dismissively turning his back on the mess and fishing a plate out of the cabinet.

“Whatever, just sit down and eat your omelet. I spent _at least_ an hour chopping up all these disgusting veggies.”

Ignis dutifully does as he is bid and circles around to perch on a barstool next to the island, crossing his arms atop the marble so he can lean forward to stare, moonstruck, at the expanse of Noctis’ back as he shuffles about the kitchen.

In the end, the omelet _is_ cold and the diced vegetables have grown a little rubbery, and the leftover coffee is lukewarm at best. However, Ignis is sure it is the finest breakfast he’s ever had, and easily cleans his plate, smiling all the while.

“So? Verdict?” Noctis prompts as Ignis dabs demurely at his lips with a napkin.

“Truly delectable.”

The king quirks a skeptical eyebrow but doesn’t argue, just reaches across the island to trace Ignis’ knuckles, his gaze wistful.

“I can’t believe this is real. It all kind of feels like a dream.”

Ignis’ lips twist into a watery smile as he lifts his hand to thread their fingers together properly. He has a full belly, a full heart, there in the warmth of midmorning, with sunlight dancing across the countertops and the quiet din of life bustling about in the plaza below.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, gripping Noctis’ hand a little tighter.

 _I can have this_ , he thinks, half-delirious.

_Finally._

The blissful peace of the moment is shattered by a loud rattle at the entry door, the teeth-grinding rap of a heavy bronze knocker against cherrywood. Noctis heaves a groan and slumps dramatically across the island.

 _“What?”_ he barks out against the impassive marble.

 _“Y-your Majesty,”_ Tomlin quavers from the other side. _“You have visitors. Erm,_ important _visitors.”_

“Gonna fire him,” Noctis mumbles under his breath against the cold stone slab, before snapping up and half-shouting, “Ok, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

They can hear Tomlin shuffle away with that awkward cadence of his, and once his clumsy movements are well out of earshot, Noctis turns to Ignis and asks, “ _Can_ I fire him?”

“Ah, that is ill-advised, I’m afraid. The poor boy is merely doing his job.”

“Yeah, but in this case ‘doing his job’ means interrupting what is probably the best morning ever.”

Ignis is stricken by his easy words and the blatant honesty behind them. He slips from his stool and pads around to lift one of Noctis’ hands to his lips, bowing at the hip in a chivalrous display.

“I’m certain that, between the two of us, we can handle these ‘important’ visitors with little trouble,” he says against the veins of Noctis’ wrist.

The king just stares at him, hopelessly enamored.

“Yeah,” he murmurs at length. “We’ve got this. Together.”

Ignis smiles and draws back to plant a chaste kiss against each lax knuckle.

“Together,” he echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for your patience. I rewrote this chapter twice. I hope you end up liking it!


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